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THE    BEST  LETTERS 


OF 


CHARLES    LAMB 

lEtiiUli  toiti)  an  Entr0t>uctton 
By  EDWARD  GILPIN   JOHNSON 


CHICAGO 
A.   C.   McCLURG   AND    COMPANY 


1892 


1^883 


Copyright, 
By  a.  C.  McClurg  and  Co. 

A.  D.    1892. 


"''-Vobs 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION 9 

LETTER 

I.     To  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 31 

II.     To  Coleridge 33 

III.  To  Coleridge 38 

IV.  To  Coleridge 52 

V.     To  Coleridge 55 

W.     To  Coleridge 57 

VII.     To  Coleridge 64 

VIII.     To  Coleridge 66 

IX.     To  Coleridge 69 

X.     To  Coleridge 70 

XI.     To  Coleridge 74 

XII.     To  Coleridge 79 

XIII.  To  Coleridge 85 

XIV.  To  Coleridge 91 

XV.     To  Robert  Southey 94 

XVI.     To  Soutfiey 98^ 

XVII.     To  Southey 99 

XVIII.    To  Southey 102 

XIX.     To  Thomas  Manning 106 

XX.     To  Coleridge 108 

XXI.     To  Manning 109 

XXII.     To  Coleridge "o 

XXIII.  To  Manning "2 

XXIV.  To  Manning 115 

XXV.     To  Coleridge nS 


S 


VI  CONTENTS. 

LETTER  PAGE 

XXVI.  To  Manning 120 

XXVII.  To  Coleridge 122 

XXVIII.  To  Coleridge 125 

XXIX.  To  Manning 127 

XXX.  To  Manning 130 

XXXI.  To  Manning 132 

XXXII.  To  Manning 134 

XXXIII.  To  Coleridge 137 

XXXIV.  To  Wordsworth 140 

XXXV.  To  Wordsworth 143 

XXXVI.  To  Manning 145 

XXXVII.  To  Manning 147 

XXXVIII.  To  Manning 150 

XXXIX.  To  Coleridge 1 54 

XL.  To  Manning 157 

XLI.  To  Manning 159 

XLII.  To  Manning 161 

XLIII.  To  William  Godwin 164 

XLIV.  To  Manning 167 

XLV.  To  Miss  Wordsworth 170 

XLVI  To  Manning 172 

XLVII.  To  Wordsworth 175 

XLVIIl.  To  Manning 179 

XLIX.  To  Wordsworth 186 

L.  To  Manning 1S7 

LI.  To  Miss  Wordsworth 191 

LII.  To  Wordsworth 192 

LIII.  To  Wordsworth 194 

LIV.  To  Wordsworth 198 

LV.  To  Wordsworth 203 

LVI.  To  Southey 208 

LVII.  To  Miss  Hutchinson 212 

LVIII.  To  Manning 213 

LIX.  To  Manning 217 

LX.  To  Wordsworth 219 

LXI.  To  Wordsworth 221 


CONTENTS.  VI 1 

LETTER  PACE 

LXII.     To  H.  Dodwdl 225 

LXIII.     To  Mrs.  Wordswortli 226 

LXIV.     To  Wordsworth 232 

LXV.     To  Manning 236 

LXVI.     To  Miss  Wordsworth 238 

LXVII.     To  Coleridge 241 

LXVIII.     To  Wordsworth 244 

LXIX.     To  John  Clarke 247 

LXX.     To  Mr.  Barron  Field 249 

LXXI.     To  Walter  Wilson 251 

LXXII.     To  Bernard  Barton 253 

LXXIII.     To  Miss  Wordsworth 255 

LXXIV.     To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bruton 257 

LXXV.     To  Bernard  Barton 259 

LXXVr.     To  Miss  Hutchinson 261 

LXXVII.     To  Bernard  Barton 264 

LXXVIII.     To  Mrs.  Hazlitt 266 

LXXIX.     To  Bernard  Barton 268 

LXXX.     To  Bernard  Barton 270 

LXXXI.     To  Bernard  Barton 273 

LXXXII.     To  Bernard  Barton 275 

LXXXIII.     To  Bernard  Barton 27S 

LXXXIV.     To  Bernard  Barton 279 

LXXXV.     To  Bernard  Barton 281 

LXXXVI.     To  Wordsworth 282 

LXXXVII.     To  Bernard  Barton 285 

LXXXVIII.     To  Bernard  Barton 2S6 

LXXXIX.     To  Bernard  Barton 2S7 

XC.     To  Southey 289 

XCI.     To  Bernard  Barton 293 

XCII.     ToJ.  B.  Dibdin 295 

XCIII.     To  Henry  Crabb  Robinson 297 

XCIV\     To  Peter  George  Patmore 299 

XCV.     To  Bernard  Barton 302 

XCVI.     To  Thomas  Hood •     .     .     .     .  304 

XCVII.     To  P.  G.  Patmore 307 


via  CONTENTS. 

LETTER  PAGE 

XCVIII.     To  Bernard  Barton 309 

XCIX.     To  Procter 312 

C.     To  Bernard  Barton 314 

CI.     To  Mr.  Oilman 31; 

CII.     To  Wordsworth -319 

cm.     To  Mrs.  Hazlitt 325 

CIV.     To  George  Dyer 328 

CV.     To  Dyer t,t,o 

CVI.     To  Mr.  Moxon 334 

CVII.     To  Mr.  Moxon 335 


INTRODUCTION. 


No  writer,  perhaps,  since  the  days  of  Dr.  Johnson 
has  been  oftener  brought  before  us  in  biographies, 
essays,  letters,  etc.,  than  Charles  Lamb.  His  stam- 
mering speech,  his  gaiter-clad  legs,  —  "  almost  imma- 
terial legs,"  Hood  called  them,  —  his  frail  wisp  of  a 
body,  topped  by  a  head  "  worthy  of  Aristotle,"  his  love 
of  punning,  of  the  Indian  weed,  and,  alas  !  of  the  kindly 
production  of  the  juniper-berry  (he  was  not,  he  owned, 
"  constellated  under  Aquarius  "),  his  antiquarianism  of 
taste,  and  relish  of  the  crotchets  and  whimsies  of  author- 
ship, are  as  familiar  to  us  almost  as  they  were  to  the 
group  he  gathered  round  him  Wednesdays  at  No.  4, 
Inner  Temple  Lane,  where  "a  clear  fire,  a  clean  hearth, 
and  the  rigor  of  the  game"  awaited  them.  Talfourd 
has  unctuously  celebrated  Lamb's  "  Wednesday  Nights." 
He  has  kindly  left  ajar  a  door  through  which  poster- 
ity peeps  in  upon  the  company, — ^Hazlitt,  Leigh  Hunt, 
"  Barry  Cornwall,"  Godwin,  Martin  Burney,  Crabb 
Robinson  (a  ubiquitous  shade,  dimly  suggestive  of  that 
figment, "  Mrs.  Harris  "),  Charles  Kemble,  Fanny  Kelly 
("  Barbara  S."),  on  red-letter  occasions  Coleridge  and 
Wordsworth, — and  sees  them  discharging  the  severer 
offices  of  the  whist-table  ("  cards  were  cards  "  then), 
and,  later,  unbending  their  minds  over  poetry,  criticism, 
and  metaphysics.  Elia  was  no  Barmecide  host,  and 
the  Serjeant  dwells  not  without  regret  upon  the  solider 
business  of  the  evening,  —  "  the  cold  roast  lamb  or  boiled 
beef,  the  heaps  of  smoking  roasted  potatoes,  and  the 


lo  INTRODUCTION. 

vast  jug  of  porter,  often  replenished  from  the  foaming 
pots  which  the  best  tap  of  Fleet  Street  supplied,"  hos- 
pitably presided  over  by  "  the  most  quiet,  sensible,  and 
kind  of  women,"  Mary  Lamb. 

The  literati  of  Talfourd's  day  were  clearly  hardier 
of  digestion  than  their  descendants  are.  Roast  lamb, 
boiled  beef,  "  heaps  of  smoking  roasted  potatoes,"  pots 
of  porter,  —  a  noontide  meal  for  a  hodman,  —  and  the 
hour  midnight!  One  is  reminded,  a  ^/-f^/^j-  of  Miss 
Lamb's  robust  viands,  that  Elia  somewhere  confesses 
to  "  an  occasional  nightmare ; "  "  but  I  do  not,"  he 
adds,  "  keep  a  whole  stud  of  them."  To  go  deeper  into 
this  matter,  to  speculate  upon  the  possible  germs,  the 
first  vague  intimations  to  the  mind  of  Coleridge  of  the 
weird  spectra  of  "  The  Ancient  Mariner,"  the  phantas- 
magoria of  "  Kubla  Khan,"  would  be,  perhaps,  over- 
refining.  "  Barry  Cornwall,"  too.  Lamb  tells  us,  "  had 
his  tritons  and  his  nereids  gambolhng  before  him  in 
nocturnal  visions."     No  wonder! 

It  is  not  intended  here  to  re- thresh  the  straw  left  by 
Talfourd,  Fitzgerald,  Canon  Ainger,  and  others,  in  the 
hope  of  discovering  something  new  about  Charles  Lamb. 
In  this  quarter,  at  least,  the  wind  shall  be  tempered  to 
the  reader,  —  shorn  as  he  is  by  these  pages  of  a  charm- 
ing letter  or  two.  So  far  as  fresh  facts  are  concerned, 
the  theme  may  fairly  be  considered  exhausted.  Num- 
berless writers,  too,  have  rung  the  changes  upon  "  poor 
Charles  Lamb,"  "dear  Charles  Lamb,"  "gentle  Charles 
Lamb,"  and  the  rest,  —  the  final  epithet,  by  the  way, 
being  one  that  Elia,  living,  specially  resented : 

"  For  God's  sake,"  he  wrote  to  Coleridge,  "  don't  make  me 
ridiculous  any  more  by  terming  me  gentle-hearted  in  print, 
or  do  it  in  better  verses.  It  did  well  enougli  five  years  ago, 
when  I  came  to  see  you,  and  was  moral  coxcomb  enough  at 
the  time  you  wrote  the  lines  to  feed  upon  such  epithets ;  but 
besides  that  the  meaning  of  '  gentle'  is  equivocal  at  best,  and 
almost  always  means  poor-spirited,  the  very  quality  of  gen- 


INTRODUCTION.  1 1 

tleness  is  abhorrent  to  such  vile  triimpetings.  My  sentiment 
is  long  since  vanished.  I  hope  my  virtues  have  done  suckini^. 
I  can  scarce  think  but  you  meant  it  in  joke.  I  hope  you  did, 
for  I  should  be  ashamed  to  believe  that  you  could  think  to 
gratify  me  by  such  praise,  fit  only  to  be  a  cordial  to  some 
green-sick  sonneteer." 

The  indulgent  pity  conventionally  bestowed  upon 
Charles  Lamb  —  one  of  the  most  manly,  self-reliant  of 
characters,  to  say  nothing  of  his  genius  —  is  absurdly 
misplaced. 

Still  farther  be  it  from  us  to  blunt  the  edge  of  appe- 
tite by  sapiently  essaying  to  "  analyze  "  and  account  for 
Lamb's  special  zest  and  flavor,  as  though  his  writings, 
or  any  others  worth  the  reading,  were  put  together  upon 
principles  of  clockwork.  We  are  perhaps  over-fond 
of  these  arid  pastimes  nowadays.  It  is  not  the  "sweet 
musk-roses,"  the  "  apricocks  and  dewberries  "  of  litera- 
ture that  please  us  best ;  like  Bottom  the  Weaver,  we 
prefer  the  "  bottle  of  hay."  What  a  mockerj'  of  right 
enjoyment  our  endless  prying  and  sifting,  our  hunting 
of  riddles  in  metaphors,  innuendoes  in  tropes,  ciphers  in 
Shakspeare  !  Literature  exhausted,  we  may  turn  to  art. 
and  resolve,  say,  the  Sistine  Madonna  (I  deprecate  the 
Manes  of  the  "Divine  Painter")  into  some  ingenious 
and  recondite  rebus.  For  such  critical  chopped-haj^  — 
sweeter  to  the  modern  taste  than  honey  of  Hybla  — 
Charles  Lamb  had  little  relish.  "  I  am,  sir,"  he  once 
boasted  to  an  analytical,  unimaginative  proser  who  had 
insisted  upon  explatttitig  some  quaint  passage  in  Mar- 
veil  or  Wither,  "  !  am,  sir,  a  matter-of-lie  man."  It  was 
his  best  warrant  to  sit  at  the  Muses'  banquet.  Charles 
Lamb  was  blessed  with  an  intellectual  palate  as  fine  as 
Keats's,  and  could  enjoy  the  savor  of  a  book  (or  of  that 
dainty,  "  in  the  whole  miindus  edibilis  the  most  delicate," 
Roast  Pig,  for  that  matter)  without  pragmatically  ask- 
ing, as  the  king  did  of  the  apple  in  the  dumpling,  "  how 
the  devil  it  got  there."     His  value  as  a  critic  is  grounded 


\ 


1 2  INTR  OD  UC  TION 

in  this  capacity  of  naive  enjoyment  (not  of  pig,  but  of 
literature),  of  discerning  beauty  and  making  us  discern 
it,  —  thus  adding  to  the  known  treasures  and  pleasures 
of  mankind. 

Suggestions  not  unprofitable  for  these  later  days  lurk 
in  these  traits  of  Elia  the  student  and  critic.  How 
worthy  the  imitation,  for  instance,  of  those  disciples  who 
band  together  to  treat  a  fine  poem  (of  Browning,  say, 
or  Shelley)  as  they  might  a  chapter  in  the  Revelation, 
—  speculating  sagely  upon  the  import  of  the  seven  seals 
and  the  horns  of  the  great  beast,  instead  of  enjoying 
the  obvious  beauties  of  their  author.  To  the  school- 
master—  whose  motto  would  seem  too  often  to  be  the 
counsel  of  the  irate  old  lady  in  Dickens,"  Give  him  a  meal 
of  chaff  !  "  —  Charles  Lamb's  critical  methods  are  rich 
in  suggestion.  How  many  ingenuous  boys,  lads  in  the 
very  flush  and  hey-day  of  appreciativeness  of  the  epic 
virtues,  have  been  parsed,  declined,  and  conjugated  into 
an  utter  detestation  of  the  melodious  names  of  Homer 
and  Virgil !  Better  far  for  such  victims  had  they,  in- 
stead of  aspiring  to  the  vanities  of  a  "  classical  educa- 
tion/' sat,  like  Keats,  unlearnedly  at  the  feet  of  quaint 
Chapman,  or  Dryden,  or  even  of  Mr.  Pope. 

Perhaps,  by  way  of  preparative  to  the  reading  of 
Charles  Lamb's  letters,  it  will  be  well  to  run  over  once 
more  the  leading  facts  of  his  life.  First  let  us  glance 
at  his  outward  appearance.  Fortunately  there  are  a 
number  of  capital  pieces  of  verbal  portraiture  of  Elia. 

Referring  to  the  year  1817,  "  Barry  Cornwall  "  wrote; 

"  Persons  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  traversing  Covent 
Garden  at  that  time  of  night,  by  extending  their  walk  a  few 
yards  into  Russell  Street  have  noticed  a  small,  spare  man 
clothed  in  black,  who  went  out  every  morning,  and  returned 
every  afternoon  as  the  hands  of  the  clock  moved  toward 
certain  hours.  You  could  not  mistake  him.  He  was  some- 
what stiff  in  his  manner,  and  almost  clerical  in  dress,  which 
indicated  much  wear.     He  had  a  long,  melancholy  face,  with 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

keen,  penetrating  eyes  ;  and  he  walked  with  a  short,  resolute 
step  citywards.  He  looked  no  one  in  the  face  for  more  than 
a  moment,  yet  contrived  to  see  everything  as  he  went  on. 
No  one  who  ever  studied  the  human  features  could  pass  him 
by  without  recollecting  his  countenance ;  it  was  full  of  sen- 
sibility, and  it  came  upon  you  like  new  thought,  which  you 
could  not  help  dwelling  upon  afterwards :  it  gave  rise  to 
meditation,  and  did  you  good.  This  small,  half-clerical  man 
was  —  Charles  Lamb." 

His  countenance  is  thus  described  by  Thomas  Hood  : 

"  His  was  no  common  face,  none  of  those  willow-pattern 
ones  which  Nature  turns  out  by  thousands  at  her  potteries, 
but  more  like  a  chance  specimen  of  the  Chinese  ware, —  one 
t(>,the  set ;  unique,  antique,  quaint,  you  might  have  sworn  to 
it  piecemeal,  —  a  separate  affidavit  to  each  feature." 

Mrs.  Charles  Mathews,  wife  of  the  comedian,  who 
met  Lamb  at  a  dinner,  gives  an  amusing  account  of 
him  :  — 

"  Mr.  Lamb's  first  appearance  was  not  prepossessing.  His 
figure  was  small  and  mean,  and  no  man  was  certainly  ever 
less  beholden  to  his  tailor.  His  'bran'  new  suit  of  black 
cloth  (in  which  he  affected  several  times  during  the  day  to 
take  great  pride,  and  to  cherish  as  a  novelty  that  he  had 
looked  for  and  wanted)  was  drolly  contrasted  with  his  very 
rusty  silk  stockings,  shown  from  his  knees,  and  his  much  too 
large,  thick  shoes^  without  polish.  His  shirt  rejoiced  in  a  wide, 
ill-plaited  frill,  and  his  very  small,  tight,  white  neckcloth  was 
hemmed  to  a  fine  point  at  the  ends  that  formed  part  of  a  lit- 
tle bow.  His  hair  was  black  and  sleek,  but  not  formal,  and 
his  face  the  gravest  I  ever  saw,  but  indicating  great  intellect, 
and  resembling  very  much  the  portraits  of  Charles  I." 

From  this  sprightly  and  not  too  flattering  sketch  we 
may  turn  to  Serjeant  Talfourd's  tender  and  charming 
portrait,  —  slightly  idealized,  no  doubt;  for  the  man  of 
the  coif  held  a  brief  for  his  friend,  and  was  a  poet 
besides :  — 

"  Methinks  I  see  him  before  me  now  as  he  appeared  then, 
and  as  he  continued  without  any  perceptible  alteration  to  me, 


1 4  IiYTR  OD  UC  riON. 

during  the  twenty  years  of  intimacy  which  followed,  and  were 
closed  by  his  death.  A  light  frame,  so  fragile  that  it  seemed 
as  if  a  breath  would  overthrow  it,  clad  in  clerk-like  black, 
was  surmounted  by  a  head  of  form  and  expression  the  most 
noble  and  sweet.  His  black  hair  curled  crisply  about  an 
expanded  forehead ;  his  eyes,  softly  brown,  twinkled  with 
varying  expression,  though  the  prevalent  expression  was 
sad;  and  the  nose,  slightly  curved,  and  delicately  carved  at 
the  nostril,  with  the  lower  outline  of  the  face  delicately  oval, 
completed  a  head  which  was  finely  placed  upon  the  shoulders, 
and  gave  importance  and  even  dignity  to  a  diminutive  and 
shadowy  stem.  Who  shall  describe  his  countenance,  catch  its 
quivering  sweetness,  and  fix  it  forever  in  words  ?  There  are 
none,  alas !  to  answer  the  vain  desire  of  friendship.  Deep 
thought,  striving  with  humor ;  the  lines  of  suffering  wreathed 
into  cordial  mirth,  and  a  smile  of  painful  sweetness,  present 
an  image  to  the  mind  it  can  as  little  describe  as  lose.  His  per- 
sonal appearance  and  manner  are  not  unjustly  characterized 
by  what  he  himself  says  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Manning,^ 
'  a  compound  of  the  Jew,  the  gentleman,  and  the  angel.'  " 

The  writings  of  Charles  Lamb  abound  in  passages  of 
autobiography.  "  I  was  born,"  he  tells  us  in  that  delight- 
ful sketch,  "The  Old  Benchers  of  the  Inner  Temple," 
"  and  passed  the  first  seven  years  of  my  life  in  the  Tem- 
ple. Its  church,  its  halls,  its  gardens,  its  fountain,  its 
river,  I  had  almost  said,  —  for  in  those  young  years 
what  was  this  king  of  rivers  to  me  but  a  stream  that 
watered  our  pleasant  places  ?  —  these  are  of  my  oldest 
recollections."  His  father,  John  Lamb,  the  "  Lovel  " 
of  the  essay  cited,  had  come  up  a  little  boy  from  Lin- 
colnshire to  enter  the  service  of  Samuel  Salt,  —  one  of 
those  "Old  Benchers"  upon  whom  the  pen  of  Elia 
has  shed  immortality,  a  stanch  friend  and  patron  to 
the  Lambs,  the  kind  proprietor  of  that  "spacious  closet 
of  good  old  English  reading  "  upon  whose  "  fair  and 
wholesome  pasturage"  Charles  and  his  sister,  as 
children,  "  browsed  at  will." 

1  Letter  L. 


INTRODUCTION.  1$ 

John  Lamb  had  married  Elizabeth  Field,  whose 
mother  was  for  fifty  years  housekeeper  at  the  country- 
seat  of  the  Plumers,  Blakesware,  in  Hertfordshire,  the 
"  Blakesmoor  "  of  the  Essays,  frequent  scene  of  Lamb's 
childish  holiday  sports,  —  a  spacious  mansion,  with  its 
park  and  terraces  and  "  firry  wilderness,  the  haunt  of  the 
squirrel  and  day-long  murmuring  wood-pigeon ; "  an 
Eden  it  must  have  seemed  to  the  London-bred  child,  in 
whose  fancy  the  dusty  trees  and  sparrows  and  smoke- 
grimed  fountain  of  Temple  Court  had  been  a  pastoral. 
Within  the  cincture  of  its  excluding  garden-walls,  wrote 
Elia  in  later  years,  "  I  could  have  exclaimed  with  that 
garden-loving  poet,^  — 

'.' '  Bind  me,  ve  woodbines,  in  your  twines  ; 
Curl  me  about,  ye  gadding  vines; 
And  oh,  so  close  your  circles  lace 
That  I  may  never  leave  this  place  : 
But  lest  your  fetters  prove  too  weak, 
Ere  I  your  silken  bondage  break, 
Do  you,  O  brambles,  chain  me  too. 
And,  courteous  briers,  nail  me  through.' " 

At  Blakesware,  too,  was  the  room  whence  the  spirit 
of  Sarah  Battle  —  that  "  gentlewoman  born  "  —  winged 
its  flight  to  a  region  where  revokes  and  "  luke-warm 
gamesters  "  are  unknown. 

To  John  and  Elizabeth  Lamb  were  born  seven  chil- 
dren, only  three  of  whom,  John,  Mary-,  and  Charles, 
survived  their  infancy.  Of  the  survivors,  Charles  was 
the  youngest,  John  being  twelve  and  Mary  ten  years 
his  senior,  —  a  fact  to  be  weighed  in  estimating  the 
heroism  of  Lamb's  later  Hfe.  At  the  age  of  seven, 
Charles  Lamb,  "son  of  John  Lamb,  scrivener,  and 
Elizabeth,  his  wife,"  was  entered  at  the  school  of 
Christ's  Hospital, —  "  the  antique  foundation  of  that 
godly  and  royal  child  King  Edward  VL"     Of  his  life 

1  Cowie)'. 


1 6  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

at  this  institution  he  has  left  us  abundant  and  charming 
memorials  in  the  Essays,  "  Recollections  of  Christ's 
Hospital,"  and  "  Christ's  Hospital  Five-and-thirty  Years 
Ago,"  —  the  latter  sketch  corrective  of  the  rather  op- 
timistic impressions  of  the  former. 

With  his  schoolfellows  Charles  seems  to  have  been, 
despite  his  timid  and  retiring  disposition  (he  said  of 
himself,  "while  the  others  were  all  fire  and  play,  he 
stole  along  with  all  the  self-concentration  of  a  young 
monk  "),  a  decided  favorite.  "  Lamb,"  wrote  C.  V.  Le 
Grice,  a  schoolmate  often  mentioned  in  essay  and 
letter,  "  was  an  amiable,  gentle  boy,  very  sensible  and 
keenly  observing,  indulged  by  his  schoolfellows  and 
by  his  master  on  account  of  his  infirmity  of  speech. 
...  I  never  heard  his  name  mentioned  without  the 
addition  of  Charles,  although,  as  there  was  no  other 
boy  of  the  name  of  Lamb,  the  addition  was  unneces- 
sary ;  but  there  was  an  implied  kindness  in  it,  and  it 
was  a  proof  that  his  gentle  manners  excited  that 
kindness." 

^^  For  us  the  most  important  fact  of  the  Christ's  Hospi- 
tal school-days  is  the  commencement  of  Lamb's  life-long 
friendship  with  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  two  years  his 
senior,  and  the  object  of  his  fervent  hero-worship. 
Most  of  us,  perhaps,  can  find  the  true  source  of  what- 
ever of  notable  good  or  evil  we  have  effected  in  life  in 
the  moulding  influence  of  one  of  these  early  friendships 
or  admirations.  It  is  the  boy's  hero,  the  one  he  loves 
and  reverences  among  his  schoolfellows,  —  not  his  task- 
master, —  that  is  his  true  teacher,  the  setter  of  the 
broader  standards  by  which  he  is  to  abide  through  life. 
Happy  the  man  the  feet  of  whose  early  idols  have  not 
been  of  clay. 

It  was  under  the  quickening  influence  of  the  eloquent, 
precocious  genius  of  the  "  inspired  charity  boy  "  that 
Charles  Lamb's  ideals  and  ambitions  shaped  themselves 

<^out  of  the  haze  of  a  child's  conceptions.     Coleridge  at 


INTRODUCTION.  1 7 

sixteen  was  already  a  poet,  bis  ear  attuned  to  the 
subtlest  melody  of  verse,  and  his  hand  rivalling,  in  pre- 
luding fragments,  the  efforts  of  his  maturer  years ;  he 
was  already  a  philosopher,  rapt  in  Utopian  schemes 
and  mantling  hopes  as  enchanting  —  and  as  chimerical 
—  as  the  pleasure-domes  and  caves  of  ice  decreed  by 
Kubla  Khan ;  and  the  younger  lad  became  his  ardent 
disciple. 

Lamb  quitted  Christ's  Hospital,  prematurely,  in  No- 
vember, 1787,  and  the  companionship  of  the  two  friends 
was  for  a  time  interrupted.  To  part  with  Coleridge,  to 
exchange  the  ease  and  congenial  scholastic  atmosphere 
of  the  Hospital  for  the  res  angusta  doiiii^  for  the  intel- 
lectual starvation  of  a  life  of  counting-house  drudgerj^, 
must  have  been  a  bitter  trial  for  him.  But  the  shadow  of 
poverty  was  upon  the  little  household  in  the  Temple ;  on 
the  horizon  of  the  future  the  blackening  clouds  of  anxie- 
ties still  graver  were  gathering  ;  and  the  youngest  child 
was  called  home  to  share  the  common  burden. 

Charles  Lamb  was  first  employed  in  the  South  Sea 
House,  where  his  brother  John  ^  —  a  cheerful  optimist, 
a  dilettante  in  art,  genial,  prosperous,  thoroughly  selfish, 
in  so  far  as  the  family  fortunes  were  concerned  an  out- 
sider—  already  held  a  lucrative  post.  It  was  not  long 
before  Charles  obtained  promotion  in  the  form  of  a 
clerkship  with  the  East  India  Company,  —  one  of  the 
last  kind  services  of  Samuel  Salt,  who  died  in  the  same 
year,  1792,  —  and  with  the  East  India  Company  he 
remained  for  the  rest  of  his  working  life. 

Upon  the  death  of  their  generous  patron  the  Lambs 
removed  from  the  Temple  and  took  lodgings  in  Little 
Queen  Street,  Holborn ;  and  for  Charles  the  battle  of 
life  may  be  said  to  have  fairly  begun.  His  work  as  a 
junior  clerk  absorbed,  of  course,  the  greater  part  of  his 
day  and  of  his  year.  Yet  there  were  breathing-spaces  : 
there  were  the  long  evenings  with  the  poets  ;  with  Mar- 

1  The  James  Elia  of  the  essay  "  My  Relations." 
2 


l8  INTRODUCTION. 

lowe,  Drayton,  Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  and  Cow- 
ley,—  "the  sweetest  names,  which  carry  a  perfume  in 
the  mention ;  "  there  were  the  visits  to  the  play,  the 
yearly  vacation  jaunts  to  sunny  Hertfordshire.  The 
intercourse  with  Coleridge,  too,  was  now  occasionally 
renewed.  The  latter  had  gone  up  to  Cambridge  early 
in  1 791,  there  to  remain  —  except  the  period  of  his  six 
months'  dragooning  —  for  the  next  four  years.  During 
his  visits  to. London  it  was  the  habit  of  the  two  school- 
fellows to  meet  at  a  tavern  near  Smithfield,  the  "  Sal- 
utation and  Cat,"  to  discuss  the  topics  dear  to  both  ;  and 
it  was  about  this  time  that  Lamb's  sonnet  to  Mrs  Sid- 
dons,  his  first  appearance  in  print,  was  published  in  the 
"  Morning  Chronicle." 

The  year  1796  was  a  terribly  eventful  one  for  the 
Lambs.  There  was  a  taint  of  insanity  in  the  family 
on  the  father's  side,  and  on  May  27,  1796,  we  find 
Charles  writing  to  Coleridge  these  sad  words,  —  doubly 
sad  for  the  ring  of  mockery  in  them  : — 

"  My  life  has  been  somewhat  diversified  of  late.  The  six 
weeks  that  finished  last  year  and  began  this,  your  very 
humble  servant  spent  very  agreeably  in  a  madhouse  at 
Hoxton.  I  am  got  somewhat  rational  now,  and  don't  bite 
any  one.     But  mad  I  was  I  "  ^ 

Charles,  thanks  to  the  resolution  with  which  he  com- 
bated the  tendency,  and  to  the  steadying  influence  of 
his  work  at  the  desk,  —  despite  his  occasional  murmurs, 
his  best  friend  and  sheet-anchor  in  life,  —  never  again 
succumbed  to  the  family  malady ;  but  from  that  mo- 
ment, over  his  small  household,  Madness  — like  Death 
in  Milton's  vision  —  continually  "  shook  its  dart,"  and 
at  best  only  "  delayed  to  strike."  - 

It  was  in  the  September  of  1796  that  the  calamity 
befell  which  has  tinged  the  story  of  Charles  and  Mary 

1  Letter  I.  2  Talfourd's  Memoir. 


INTRODUCTION.  1 9 

Lamb  with  the  sombrest  hues  of  the  Greek  tragedy. 
The  family  were  still  in  the  Holborn  lodgings, — the 
mother  an  invalid,  the  father  sinking  into  a  second 
childhood.  Mary,  in  addition  to  the  burden  of  min- 
istering to  her  parents,  was  working  for  their  support 
with  her  needle. 

At  this  point  it  will  be  well  to  insert  a  prefatory  word 
or  two  as  to  the  character  of  Mary  Lamb;  and  here 
the  witnesses  are  in  accord.  There  is  no  jarring  of 
opinion,  as  in  her  brother's  case ;  for  Charles  Lamb 
has  been  sorely  misjudged,  —  often,  it  must  be  admitted, 
with  ground  of  reason ;  sometimes  by  persons  who  might 
and  should  have  looked  deeper.  In  a  notable  instance, 
the  heroism  of  his  life  has  been  meanly  overlooked  by 
one  who  preached  to  mankind  with  the  eloquence  of 
the  Prophets  the  prime  need  and  virtue  of  recognizing 
the  hero.  If  self-abnegation  lies  at  the  root  of  true  hero- 
ism, Charles  Lamb  —  that  "  sorry  phenomenon  "  with 
an  "  insuperable  proclivity  to  gin  "  ^  —  was  a  greater 
hero  than  was  covered  by  the  shield  of  Achilles.  The 
character  of  Mary  Lamb  is  quickly  summed  up.  She 
was  one  of  the  most  womanly  of  women.  "In  all  its 
essential  sweetness,"  says  Talfourd,  "  her  character 
was  like  her  brother's  ;  while,  by  a  temper  more  placid, 
a  spirit  of  enjoyment  more  serene,  she  was  enabled 
to  guide,  to  counsel,  to  cheer  him,  and  to  protect  him 
on  the  verge  of  the  mysterious  calamity,  from  the 
depths  of  which  she  rose  so  often  unruffled  to  his  side. 
To  a  friend  in  any  difficulty  she  was  the  most  comfort- 
able of  advisers,  the  wisest  of  consolers."  Hazlitt  said 
that  "  he  never  met  with  a  woman  who  could  reason, 
and  had  met  with  only  one  thoroughly  reasonable,  — 
Mary  Lamb."  The  writings  of  Elia  are  strewn,  as 
we  know,  with  the  tenderest  tributes  to  her  worth.  "  I  - 
wish, "  he  says,  "  that  I  could  throw  into  a  heap  the 

'  Carlyle. 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

remainder  of  our  joint  existences,  that  we  might  share 
them  in  equal  division." 

The  psychology  of  madness  is  a  most  subtle  inquiry. 
How  slight  the  mysterious  touch  that  throws  the 
smooth-running  human  mechanism  into  a  chaos  of 
jarring  elements,  that  transforms,  in  the  turn  of  an 
eyelash,  the  mild  humanity  of  the  gentlest  of  beings 
into  the  unreasoning  ferocity  of  the  tiger. 

The  London  "Times"  of  September  26,  1796,  con- 
tained the  following  paragraph  :  — 

"  On  Friday  afternoon  the  coroner  and  a  jury  sat  on  the 
body  of  a  lady  in  the  neighborhood  of  Holborn,  who  died  in 
consequence  of  a  wound  from  her  daughter  the  preceding  day. 
It  appeared  by  the  evidence  adduced  that  while  the  family 
were  preparing  for  dinner,  the  young  lady  seized  a  case-knife 
lying  on  the  table,  and  in  a  menacing  manner  pursued  a  little 
girl,  her  apprentice,  round  the  room.  On  the  calls  of  her 
infirm  mother  to  forbear,  she  renounced  her  first  object,  and 
with  loud  shrieks  approached  her  parent.  The  child,  by  her 
cries,  quickly  brought  up  the  landlord  of  the  house,  but  too 
late.^  The  dreadful  scene  presented  him  the  mother  lifeless, 
pierced  to  the  heart,  on  a  chair,  her  daughter  yet  wildly  stand- 
ing over  her  with  the  fatal  knife,  and  the  old  man,  her  father, 
weeping  by  her  side,  himself  bleeding  at  the  forehead  from 
the  effects  of  a  severe  blow  he  received  from  one  of  the  forks 
she  had  been  madly  hurling  about  the  room. 

"  For  a  few  days  prior  to  this,  the  family  had  observed 
some  symptoms  of  insanity  in  her,  which  had  so  much  in- 
creased on  the  Wednesday  evening  that  her  brother,  early 
the  next  morning,  went  to  Dr.  Pitcairn  ;  but  that  gentleman 
was  not  at  home. 

"  The  jury  of  course  brought  in  their  verdict,  —  Lunacy.'^ 

I  need  not  supply  the  omitted  names  of  the  actors  in 
this  harrowing  scene.     Mary  Lamb  was  at  once  placed 

'  It  would  seem  from  Lamb's  lettter  to  Coleridge  (Letter  IV.)  that 
it  was  he,  not  the  landlord,  who  appeared  tlius  too  late,  and  who 
snatched  the  knife  from  the  unconscious  hand. 


INTRODUCTION.  21 

in  the  Asylum  at  Hoxton,  and  the  victim  of  her  frenzy 
was  laid  to  rest  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  Andrew's, 
Holborn.  It  became  necessary  for  Charles  and  his 
father  to  make  an  immediate  change  of  residence,  and 
they  took  lodgings  at  Pentonville.  There  is  a  pregnant 
sentence  in  one  of  Lamb's  letters  that  flashes  with  the 
vividness  of  lightning  into  the  darkest  recesses  of  those 
early  troubles  and  embarrassments.  "  We  are,"  he  wrote  ^ 
to  Coleridge,  "  in  a  manner  marked^ 

Charles  Lamb  after  some  weeks  obtained  the  release 
of  his  sister  from  the  Hoxton  Asylum  by  formally  un- 
dertaking her  future  guardianship, —  a  charge  which  was 
borne,  until  Death  released  the  compact,  with  a  stead- 
fastness, a  cheerful  renunciation  of  what  men  regard  as 
the  crowning  blessings  of  manhood, ^  that  has  shed  a 
halo  more  radiant  even  than  that  of  his  genius  about 
the  figure  —  it  was  "  small  and  mean,"  said  sprightly 
Mrs.  Mathews  —  of  the  India  House  clerk. 

As  already  stated,  the  mania  that  had  once  attacked 
Charles  never  returned  ;  but  from  the  side  of  Mary 
Lamb  this  grimmest  of  spectres  never  departed.  "  Mary 
is  again  from  home ;  "  "  Mary  is  fallen  ill  again  :  "  how 
often  do  such  tear-fraught  phrases  —  tenderly  veiled,  lest^'' 
some  chance  might  bring  them  to  the  eye  of  the  blame- 
less sufferer —  recur  in  the  Letters  !  Brother  and  sister 
were  ever  on  the  watch  for  the  symptoms  premonitory 
of  the  return  of  this  "  their  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrows." 
Upon  their  little  holiday  excursions,  says  Talfourd,  a 
strait-waistcoat,  carefully  packed  by  Miss  Lamb  herself, 
was  their  constant  companion.  Charles  Lloyd  relates 
that  he  once  met  them  slowly  pacing  together  a  little 
footpath  in  Hoxton  fields,  both  weeping  bitterly,  and 
found  on  joining  them  that  they  were  taking  their  solemn 
way  to  the  old  asylum.  Thus,  upon  this  guiltless  pair 
were  visited  the  sins  of  their  fathers. 

'  The  reader  is  referred  to  Lamb's  beautiful  essay,  "Dream 
Children." 


2  2  INTRODUCTION. 

With  the  tragical  events  just  narrated,  the  storm  of 
calamity  seemed  to  have  spent  its  force,  and  there  were 
thenceforth  plenty  of  days  of  calm  and  of  sunshine  for 
Charles  Lamb.  The  stress  of  poverty  was  lightened 
and  finally  removed  by  successive  increases  of  salary  at 
the  India  House  ;  the  introductions  of  Coleridge  and 
his  own  growing  repute  in  the  world  of  letters  gathered 
about  him  a  circle  of  friends  — Southey,  Wordsworth, 
Hazlitt,  Manning,  Barton,  and  the  rest  —  more  con- 
genial, and  certainly  more  profitable,  than  the  vagrant 
i/itimados,  "  to  the  world's  eye  a  ragged  regiment," 
who  had  wasted  his  substance  and  his  leisure  in  the 
early  Temple  days. 

Lamb's  earliest  avowed  appearance  as  an  author  was 
in  Coleridge's  first  volume  of  poems,  published  by  Cottle, 
of  Bristol,  in  1796.  "The  effusions  signed  C.  L.,"  says 
Coleridge  in  the  preface,  "were  written  by  Mr.  Charles 
Lamb,  of  the  India  House.  Independently  of  the  sig- 
nature, their  superior  merit  would  have  sufficiently  dis- 
tinguished them."  The  "  effusions  "  were  ,four  sonnets, 
two  of  them  —  the  most  noteworthy  —  touching  upon 
the  one  love-romance  of  Lamb's  life,i  —  his  early  attach- 
ment to  the  "  fair-haired  "  Hertfordshire  girl,  the  "  Anna  " 

of  the  Sonnets,  the  "Alice  W n"  of  the  Essays. 

We  remember  that  Elia  in  describing  the  gallery  of  old 

family  portraits,  in  the  essay,  "  Blakesmoor  in  H 

shire,"  dwells  upon  "  that  beauty  with  the  cool,  blue, 
pastoral  drapery,  and  a  lamb,  that  hung  next  the  great 
bay  window,  with  the  bright  yellow  Hertfordshire  hair, 
so  like  my  Alice.'''' 

In  1797  Cottle  issued  a  second  edition  of  Coleridge's 
poems,  this  time  with  eleven  additional  pieces  by  Lamb, 
—  making  fifteen  of  his  in  all,  —  and  containing  verses 
by  their  friend  Charles  Lloyd.    "  It  is  unlikely,"  observes 

'  If  we  except  his  passing  tenderness  for  the  young  Quakeress, 
Hester  Savory.  Lamb  admitted  that  he  had  never  spoken  to  the 
lady  in  his  Hfe. 


INTRODUCTION.  23 

Canon  Ainger,  "  that  this  little  venture  brought  any  profit 
to  its  authors,  or  that  a  subsequent  volume  of  blank  verse 
by  Lamb  and  Lloyd  in  the  following  year  proved  more 
remunerative."  In  1798  Lamb,  anxious  for  his  sister's 
sake  to  add  to  his  slender  income,  composed  his  "  minia- 
ture romance,"  as  Talfourd  calls  it,  "  Rosamund  Gray  ;  " 
and  this  little  volume,  which  has  not  yet  lost  its  charm, 
proved  a  moderate  success.  Shelley,  writing  from  Italy 
to  Leigh  Hunt  in  1819,  said  of  it :  "  What  a  lovely  thing 
is  his  '  Rosamund  Gray  ' !  How  much  knowledge  of  the 
sweetest  and  deepest  part  of  our  nature  in  it !  When  I 
think  of  such  a  mind  as  Lamb's,  when  I  see  how  un- 
noticed remain  things  of  such  exquisite  and  complete 
perfection,  what  should  I  hope  for  myself  if  I  had  not 
higher  objects  in  view  than  fame  ?  " 

It  is  rather  unpleasant,  in  view  of  this  generous  —  if 
overstrained  —  tribute,  to  find  the  object  of  it  referring 
later  to  the  works  of  his  encomiast  as  "  thin  sown  with 
profit  or  delight."  ^ 

In  1802  Lamb  published  in  a  small  duodecimo  his 
blank-verse  tragedy,  "John  Woodvil,"  —  it  had  previ- 
ously been  declined  by  John  Kemble  as  unsuited  to  the 
stage,  —  and  in  1806  was  produced  at  the  Drurj^  Lane 
Theatre  his  farce  "  Mr.  H.,"  the  summary  failure  of 
which  is  chronicled  with  much  humor  in  the  Letters.^ 

The  "Tales  from  Shakspeare,"  by  Charles  and  Mary 
Lamb,  were  published  by  Godwin  in  1807,  and  a 
second  edition  was  called  for  in  the  following  year. 
Lamb  was  now  getting  on  surer  —  and  more  remunera- 
tive—  ground;  and  in  1808  he  prepared  for  the  firm 
of  Longmans  his  masterly  "  Specimens  of  the  English 
Dramatic  Poets  contemporary- with  Shakspeare."  Con- 
cerning this  work  he  wrote  to  Manning  :  — 

"  Specimens  are  becoming  fashionable.  We  have  Speci- 
mens of  Ancient  English  Poets,  Specimens  of  Modern  Eng- 

1  Letter  LXXXIII  2  Letters  LXVIL,  LXVIIL,  LXLX. 


24  INTRODUCTION. 

lish  Poets,  Specimens  of  Ancient  English  Prose  Writers, 
without  end.  They  used  to  be  called  '  Beauties.'  You  have 
seen  Beauties  of  Shakspeare  ?  so  have  many  people  that 
never  saw  any  beauties  in  Shakspeare." 

From  Charles  Lamb's  "  Specimens "  dates,  as  we 
know,  the  revival  of  the  study  of  the  old  English 
dramatists  other  than  Shakespeare.  He  was  the  first  , 
to  call  attention  to  the  neglected  beauties  of  those  great 
Elizabethans,  Webster,  Marlowe,  Ford,  Dekker,  Mas- 
singer,  —  no  longer  accounted  mere  "  mushrooms  that 
sprang  up  in  a  ring  under  the  great  oak  of  Arden."  ^ 

The  opportunity  that  was  to  call  forth  Lamb's  special 
faculty  in  authorship  came  late  in  life.  In  January,  1820, 
Baldwin,  Cradock,  and  Joy,  the  publishers,  brought  out 
the  first  number  of  a  new  monthly  journal  under  the 
name  of  an  earlier  and  extinct  periodical,  the  "  London 
Magazine,"  and  in  the  August  number  appeared  an 
article,  "  Recollections  of  the  South  Sea  House,"  over 
the  signature  Elia?  With  this  delightful  sketch  the 
essayist  Elia  may  be  said  to  have  been  born.  In  none 
of  Lamb's  previous  writings  had  there  been  more  than  a 
hint  of  that  unique  vein,  —  wise,  playful,  tender,  fantas- 
tic, "  everything  by  starts,  and  nothing  long,"  exhibited 
with  a  felicity  of  phrase  certainly  unexcelled  in  English 
prose  literature,  —  that  we  associate  with  his  name.  The 
careful  reader  of  the  Letters  cannot  fail  to  note  that  it 
is  thej'e  that  Lamb's  peculiar  quality  in  authorship  is 
first  manifest.  There  is  a  letter  to  Southey,  written  as 
early  as  1798,  that  has  the  true  Elia  ring.^  With  the 
"  London  Magazine,"  which  was  discontinued  in  1826, 


1  W.  S.  Landor. 

2  In  assuming  this  pseudonym  Lamb  borrowed  the  name  of  a 
fellow-clerk  who  had  served  with  him  thirty  years  before  in  the  South 
Sea  House,  —  an  Italian  named  Elia.  The  name  has  probably  never 
been  pronounced  as  Lamb  intended  '■'■  Call  him  ElliaJ''  he  said  in 
a  letter  to  J.  Taylor,  concerning  this  old  acquaintance. 

8  Letter  XVn. 


V 


introduction:  25 

Elia  was  born,  and  with  it  he  may  be  said  to  have  died, 
—  although  some  of  his  later  contributions  to  the  "  New 
Monthly  "  i  and  to  the  "  Englishman's  Magazine  "  were 
included  in  the  "  Last  Essays  of  Elia,"  collected  and  pub- 
lished in  1833.  The  first  series  of  Lamb's  essays  under 
the  title  of  Elia  had  been  published  in  a  single  volume  by 
Taylor  and  Hessey,  of  the  "  London  Magazine,"  in  1823. 

The  story  of  Lamb's  working  life  —  latterly  an  un- 
eventful one,  broken  chiefly  by  changes  of  abode  and 
by  the  yearly  holiday  jaunts,  "  migrations  from  the 
blue  bed  to  the  brown"  —  from  1 796,  when  the  cor- 
respondence with  Coleridge  begins,  is  told  in  the  letters. 
For  thirty-three  years  he  served  the  East  India  Com- 
pany, and  he  served  it  faithfully  and  steadily.  There 
is,  indeed,  a  tradition  that  havmg  been  reproved  on  one 
occasion  for  coming  to  the  office  late  in  the  morning,  he 
pleaded  that  he  always  left  it  "  so  very  early  in  the 
evening."  Poets,  we  know,  often  "heard  the  chimes 
at  midnight"  in  Elia's  day,  and  the  plea  has  certainly 
a  most  Lamb-like  ring.  That  the  Company's  directors, 
however,  were  more  than  content  with  the  service  of 
their  literate  clerk,  the  sequel  shows. 

It  is  manifest  in  certain  letters,  written  toward  the 
close  of  1824  and  in  the  beginning  of  1825,  that  Lamb's 
confinement  was  at  last  telling  upon  him,  and  that  he 
was  thinking  of  a  release  from  his  bondage  to  the 
"  desk's  dead  wood."  In  Februarj-,  1825,  he  wrote  to 
Barton,  — 

/ 

"  Your  gentleman  brother  sets  my  mouth  watering  after 
liberty.  Oh  that  I  were  kicked  out  of  Leadenhall  with 
every  mark  of  indignity',  and  a  competence  in  my  fob !  The 
birds  of  the  air  would  not  be  so  free  as  I  should.  How 
I  would  prance  and  curvet  it,  and  pick  up  cowslips,  and 
ramble  about  purposeless  as  an  idiot ! " 

1  The  rather  unimportant  series,  "  Popular  Fallacies,"  appeared 
in  the  "  New  Monthly." 


/ 


26  INTRODUCTION. 

Later  in  March  we  learn  that  he  had  signified  to  the 
directors  his  willingness  to  resign. 

"  I  am  sick  of  hope  deferred.  The  grand  wheel  is  in  agi- 
tation that  is  to  turn  up  my  fortune  ;  but  round  it  rolls, 
and  will  turn  up  nothing.  I  have  a  glimpse  of  freedom,  of 
becoming  a  gentleman  at  large,  but  I  am  put  off  from  day 
to  day.  I  have  offered  my  resignation,  and  it  is  neither  ac- 
cepted nor  rejected.  Eight  weeks  am  I  kept  in  this  fear- 
ful suspense.  Guess  what  an  absorbing  state  I  feel  it.  I  am 
not  conscious  of  the  existence  of  friends,  present  or  absent. 
The  East  India  directors  alone  can  be  that  thing  to  me.  I 
have  just  learned  that  nothing  will  be  decided  this  week. 
Why  the  next  ?     Why  any  week  .''  " 

But  the  "  grand  wheel "  was  really  turning  to  some 
purpose,  and  a  few  days  later,  April  6,  1825,  he  joyfully 
wrote  to  Barton,  — 

"  My  spirits  are  so  tumultuary  with  the  novelty  of  my 
recent  emancipation  that  I  have  scarce  steadiness  of  hand, 
much  more  mind,  to  compose  a  letter.  1  am  free,  B.  B., 
—  free  as  air  ! 

"  '  The  little  bird  that  wings  the  sky 
Knows  no  such  liberty.' 

I   was  set   free  on  Tuesday  in  last  week  at    four  o'clock.    I 
came  home  forever  !  " 

The  quality  of  the  generosity  of  the  East  India 
directors  was  not  strained  in  Lamb's  case.  It  should 
be  recorded  as  an  agreeable  commercial  phenomenon 
that  these  officials,  men  of  business  acting  in  "  a  busi- 
ness matter,"  —  words  too  often  held  to  exclude  all  such 
Quixotic  matters  as  sentiment,  gratitude,  and  Christian 
equity  between  man  and  man,  —  were  not  only  just,  but 
munificent.  1  From  the  path  of  Charles  and  Mary 
Lamb  —  already  beset  with  anxieties  grave  enough  — 

1  In  the  essay  "  The  Superannuated  Man  "  Lamb  describes,  with 
certain  changes  and  modifications,  his  retirement  from  the  India 
House. 


introduction:  27 

they  removed  forever  the  shadow  of  want.  Lamb's 
salary  at  the  time  of  his  retirement  was  nearly  seven 
hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  the  offer  made  to  him  was 
a  pension  of  four  hundred  and  fifty,  with  a  deduction 
of  nine  pounds  a  year  for  his  sister,  should  she  survive 
him.     ' 

Lamb  lived  to  enjoy  his  freedom  and  the  Company's 
bounty  nearly  nine  years.  Soon  after  his  retirement  he 
settled  with  his  sister  at  Enfield,  within  easy  reach  of 
his  loved  London,  removing  thence  to  the  neighboring 
parish  of  Edmonton,  —  his  last  change  of  residence. 
Coleridge's  death,  in  July,  1834,  was  a  heavy  blow  to 
him.  "  When  I  heard  of  the  death  of  Coleridge,"  he 
wrote,  "  it  was  without  grief.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he 
had  long  been  on  the  confines  of  the  next  world,  that 
he  had  a  hunger  for  eternity.  I  grieved  then  that  I  could 
not  grieve  ;  but  since,  I  feel  how  great  a  part  he  was  of 
me.  His  great  and  dear  spirit  haunts  me.  I  cannot 
think  a  thought,  I  cannot  make  a  criticism  on  men  or 
books,  without  an  ineffectual  turning  and  reference  to 
him.  He  was  the  proof  and  touchstone  of  all  my  cogi- 
tations." Lamb  did  not  long  outlive  his  old  schoolfellow. 
Walking  in  the  middle  of  December  along  the  London 
road,  he  stumbled  and  fell,  inflicting  a  slight  wound  upon 
his  face.  The  injury  at  first  seemed  trivial ;  but  soon 
after,  erysipelas  appearing,  it  became  evident  that  his 
general  health  was  too  feeble  to  resist.  On  the  27th  of 
December,  1834,  he  passed  quietly  away,  whispering  in 
his  last  moments  the  names  of  his  dearest  friends. 

Mary  Lamb  survived  her  brother  nearly  thirteen  years, 
dying,  at  the  advanced  age  of  eighty- two,  on  May  20. 
1847.  With  increasing  years  her  attacks  had  become 
more  frequent  and  of  longer  duration,  till  her  mind  be- 
came permanently  weakened.  After  leaving  Edmon- 
ton, she  lived  chiefly  in  a  pleasant  house  in  St.  John's 
Wood,  surrounded  by  old  books  and  prints,  under  the 
care  of  a  nurse.     Her  pension,  together  with  the  income 


28  INTRODUCTION. 

from   her  brother's  savings,   was    amph'  sufficient   for 
her  support. 

Talfourd,  who  was  present  at  the  burial  of  Marv 
Lamb,  has  eloquently  described  the  earthly  reunion  of 
the  brother  and  sister  :  — 

"  A  few  survivors  of  the  old  circle,  then  sadly  thinned, 
attended  her  remains  to  the  spot  in  Edmonton  churchyard 
where  they  were  laid,  aljove  those  of  her  brother.  In  accord- 
ance with  Lamb's  own  feeling,  so  far  as  it  could  be  gathered 
from  his  expressions  on  a  subject  to  which  he  did  not  often 
or  willingly  refer,  he  had  been  interred  in  a  deep  grave,  simply 
dug  and  wattled  round,  but  without  any  affectation  of  stone 
or  brickwork  to  keep  the  human  dust  from  its  kindred  earth. 
So  dry,  however,  is  the  soil  of  the  quiet  churchyard  that  the 
excavated  earth  left  perfect  walls  of  stiff  clay,  and  permitted 
us  just  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  still  untarnished  edges  of  the 
coffin,  in  which  all  the  mortal  part  of  one  of  the  most  delight- 
ful persons  who  ever  lived  was  contained,  and  on  which  the 
remains  of  her  he  had  loved  with  love  '  passing  the  love  of 
woman  '  were  henceforth  to  rest,  —  the  last  glances  we  shall 
ever  have  even  of  that  covering, — concealed  from  us  as  we 
parted  by  the  coffin  of  the  sister.  We  felt,  I  believe,  after 
a  moment's  strange  shuddering,  that  the  reunion  was  well 
accomplished ;  although  the  true-hearted  son  of  Admiral 
Burney,  who  had  known  and  loved  the  pair  we  quitted 
from  a  child,  and  who  had  been  among  the  dearest  objects  of 
existence  to  him,  refused  to  be  comforted." 

There  are  certain  handy  phrases,  the  legal-tender  of 
conversation,  that  people  generally  use  without  troubling 
themselves  to  look  into  their  title  to  currency.  It  is 
often  said,  for  instance,  with  an  air  of  deploring  a  phase 
of  general  mental  degeneracy,  that  "  letter-writing  is  a 
lost  art."  And  so  it  is,  —  not  because  men  nowadays,  if 
they  were  put  to  it,  could  not,  on  the  average,  write  as 
good  letters  as  ever  (the  average,  although  we  certainly 
have  no  Lambs,  and  perhaps  no  Walpoles  or  Southeys 
to  raise  it,  would  probably  be  higher),  but  because  the 


IXTRODUCTION.  29 

conditions  that  call  for  and  develop  the  epistolary  art 
have  largely  passed  away.  With  our  modern  facility  of 
communication,  the  letter  has  lost  the  pristine  dignity 
of  its  function.  The  earth  has  dwindled  strangely 
since  the  advent  of  steam  and  electricity,  and  in  a 
generation  used  to  Air.  Edison's  devices.  Puck's  girdle 
presents  no  difficulties  to  the  imagination.  In  Charles 
Lamb's  time  the  expression  '•  from  Land's  End  to  John 
O'Groat's  "  meant  something ;  to-day  it  means  a  few 
comfortable  hours  by  rail,  a  few  minutes  by  telegraph. 
Wordsworth  in  the  North  of  England  was  to  Lamb,  so 
far  as  the  chance  of  personal  contact  was  concerned, 
nearly  as  remote  as  Manning  in  China.  Under  such 
conditions  a  letter  was  of  course  a  weighty  matter; 
it  was  a  thoughtful  summary  of  opinion,  a  rarely  re- 
curring budget  of  general  intelligence,  expensive  to 
send,  and  paid  for  by  the  recipient ;  and  men  put  their 
minds  and  energies  into  composing  it.  "  One  wrote  at 
that  time,"  says  W.  C.  Hazlitt,  "  a  letter  to  an  acquaint- 
ance in  one  of  the  home  counties  which  one  would  only 
write  nowadays  to  a  settler  in  the  Colonies  or  a  relative 
in  India." 

But  to  whatever  conditions  or  circumstances  we  may 
owe  the  existence  of  Charles  Lamb's  letters,  their  qual- 
ity is  of  course  the  fruit  of  the  genius  and  temperament 
of  the  writer.  Unpremeditated  as  the  strain  of  the  sky- 
lark, they  have  almost  to  excess  (were  that  possible)  the 
prime  epistolary  merit  of  spontaneity.  From  the  brain 
of  the  WTiter  to  the  sheet  before  him  flows  an  unbroken 
Pactolian  stream.  Lamb,  at  his  best,  ranges  with 
Shakspearian  facility  the  gamut  of  human  emotion, 
exclaiming,  as  it  were  at  one  moment,  with  Jaques, 
"  Motley  's  the  only  wear  !  "  —  in  the  next  probing  the 
source  of  tears.  He  is  as  ejaculatory  with  his  pen  as 
other  men  are  with  their  tongues.  Puns,  quotations,  con- 
ceits, critical  estimates  of  the  rarest  insight  and  sug- 
■  gestiveness,  chase  each  other  over  his  pages  like  clouds 


30  INTRODUCTION. 

over  a  summer  sky ;  and  the  whole  is  leavened  with  the 
sterling  ethical  and  eesthetic  good  sense  that  renders 
Charles  Lamb  one  of  the  wholesomest  of  writers. 

As  to  the  plan  on  which  the  selections  for  this  volume 
have  been  made,  it  needs  only  to  be  said  that,  in  gen- 
eral, the  editor  has  aimed  to  include  those  letters  which 
exhibit  most  fully  the  writer's  distinctive  charm  and 
quality.  This  plan  leaves,  of  course,  a  residue  of  consid- 
erable biographical  and  critical  value  ;  but  it  is  believed 
that  to  all  who  really  love  and  appreciate  him,  Charles 
Lamb's  "Best  Letters"  are  those  which  are  most 
uniquely  and  unmistakably  Charles  Lamb's. 

E.  G.  J. 

September,  1891. 


THE    BEST    LETTERS 


CHARLES    LAMB. 


TO  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

May  27,  1796. 

Dear  Coleridge,  —  Make  yourself  perfectly  easy 
about  May.  I  paid  his  bill  when  I  sent  your 
clothes.  I  was  flush  of  money,  and  am  so  still  to 
all  the  purposes  of  a  single  life ;  so  give  yourself 
no  further  concern  about  it.  The  money  would 
be  superfluous  to  me  if  I  had  it. 

When  Southey  becomes  as  modest  as  his  prede- 
cessor, Milton,  and  publishes  his  Epics  in  duode- 
cimo, I  will  read  'em ;  a  guinea  a  book  is  somewhat 
exorbitant,  nor  have  I  the  opportunity  of  borrowing 
the  work.  The  extracts  from  it  in  the  "  Monthly 
Review,"  and  the  short  passages  in  your  '•  A\'atch- 
man,"  seem  to  me  much  superior  to  anything  in  his 
partnership  account  with  Lovell.^  Your  poems  I 
shall  procure  forthwith.     There  were  noble  lines  in 

^  Southey  had  just  published  his  "  Joan  of  Arc,"  in  quarto. 
He  and  Lovell  had  published  jointl}-,  two  years  before, 
"  Poems  bv  Bion  and  Moschus." 


32  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

what  you  inserted  in  one  of  your  numbers  from 
"Religious  Musings,"  but  I  thought  them  elaborate. 
I  am  somewhat  glad  you  have  given  up  that  paper ; 
it  must  have  been  dry,  unprofitable,  and  of  disso- 
nant mood  to  your  disposition.  I  wish  you  success 
in  all  your  undertakings,  and  am  glad  to  hear  you 
are  employed  about  the  "  Evidences  of  Religion." 
There  is  need  of  multiplying  such  books  a  hundred- 
fold in  this  philosophical  age,  to  prevent  converts 
to  atheism,  for  they  seem  too  tough  disputants  to 
meddle  with  afterwards.  .  .  . 

Coleridge,  I  know  not  what  suffering  scenes  you 
have  gone  through  at  Bristol.  My  life  has  been 
somewhat  diversified  of  late.  The  six  weeks  that 
finished  last  year  and  began  this,  your  very  humble 
servant  spent  very  agreeably  in  a  madhouse  at  Hox- 
ton.  I  am  got  somewhat  rational  now,  and  don't 
bite  any  one.  But  mad  I  was  !  and  many  a  vagary 
my  imagination  played  with  me,  —  enough  to  make 
a  volume,  if  all  were  told.  My  sonnets  I  have  ex- 
tended to  the  number  of  nine  since  I  saw  you,  and 
will  some  day  communicate  to  you.  I  am  beginning 
a  poem  in  blank  verse,  which,  if  I  finish,  I  publish. 
White  ^  is  on  the  eve  of  publishing  (he  took  the 
hint  from  Vortigern)  "  Original  Letters  of  Falstaff, 
Shallow,"  etc. ;  a  copy  you  shall  have  when  it 
comes  out.  They  are  without  exception  the  best 
imitations  I  ever  saw.  Coleridge,  it  may  convince 
you  of  my  regards  for  you  when  I  tell  you  my 
head  ran  on  you  in  my  madness  as  much  almost 

^  A  Christ's  Hospital  schoolfellow,  the  "  Jem  "  White  of 
the  Ella  essay,  "  The  Praise  of  Chimney-Sweepers." 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  33 

as  on  another  person,  who  I  am  incUned  to  think 
was  the  more  immediate  cause  of  my  temporary 
frenzy. 

The  sonnet  I  send  you  has  small  merit  as  poetry ; 
but  you  will  be  curious  to  read  it  when  I  tell  you 
it  was  written  in  my  prison-house  in  one  of  my 
lucid  intervals. 

TO    MY   SISTER. 

If  from  my  lips  some  angry  accents  fell, 

Peevish  complaint,  or  harsh  reproof  unkind, 
'T  was  but  the  error  of  a  sickly  mind 

And  troubled  thoughts,  clouding  the  purer  well 
And  waters  clear  of  Reason  ;   and  for  me 
Let  this  my  verse  the  poor  atonement  be, — 
My  verse,  which  thou  to  praise  vvert  e'er  inclined 
Too  highly,  and  with  partial  eye  to  see 

No  blemish.     Thou  to  me  didst  ever  show 
Kindest  affection  ;  and  wouldst  oft-times  lend 
An  ear  to  the  desponding  love-sick  lay. 
Weeping  my  sorrows  with  me,  who  repay 

But  ill  the  mighty  debt  of  love  I  owe, 
Mary,  to  thee,  my  sister  and  my  friend. 

With  these  lines,  and  with  that  sister's  kindest 
remembrances   to  Cottle,  I  conclude. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Lamb 


11. 

TO  COLERIDGE. 

(A'f  mo)!th)  1796. 
Tuesday  night.  —  Of  your  "  Watchman,"  the  re- 
view of  Burke  was  the  best  prose.     I  augured  great 
things    from    the    first    number.      There  is   some 
3 


34  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

exquisite  poetry  interspersed.  I  have  re-read  the 
extract  from  the  "ReUgious  Musings,"  and  retract 
whatever  invidious  there  was  in  my  censure  of  it  as 
elaborate.  There  are  times  when  one  is  not  in 
a  disposition  thoroughly  to  relish  good  writing.  I 
have  re-read  it  in  a  more  favorable  moment,  and 
hesitate  not  to  pronounce  it  sublime.  If  there  be 
anything  in  it  approaching  to  tumidity  (which  I 
meant  not  to  infer ;  by  "  elaborate  "  I  meant  simply 
"labored"),  it  is  the  gigantic  hyperbole  by  which 
you  describe  the  evils  of  existing  society  :  "  snakes, 
lions,  hyenas,  and  behemoths,"  is  carrying  your  re- 
sentment beyond  bounds.  The  pictures  of  "The 
Simoom,"  of  "  Frenzy  and  Ruin,"  of  "  The  Whore 
of  Babylon,"  and  "  The  Cry  of  Foul  Spirits  disin- 
herited of  Earth,"  and  "  The  Strange  Beatitude  " 
which  the  good  man  shall  recognize  in  heaven,  as 
well  as  the  particularizing  of  the  children  of  wretch- 
edness (I  have  unconsciously  included  every  part 
of  it),  form  a  variety  of  uniform  excellence.  I 
hunger  and  thirst  to  read  the  poem  complete. 
That  is  a  capital  line  in  your  sixth  number,  — 

"  This  dark,  frieze-coated,  hoarse,  teeth-chattering  month." 

They  are  exactly  such  epithets  as  Burns  would  have 
stumbled  on,  whose  poem  on  the  ploughed-up 
daisy  you  seem  to  have  had  in  mind.  Your  com- 
plaint that  of  your  readers  some  thought  there  was 
too  much,  some  too  little,  original  matter  in  your 
numbers,  reminds  me  of  poor  dead  Parsons  in  the 
"Critic."  "Too  little  incident!  Give  me  leave 
to  tell  you,  sir,  there  is  too  much  incident."     I  had 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  35 

jike  to  have  forgot  thanking  you  for  that  exquisite 
Httle  morsel,  the  first  Sclavonian  Song.  The  ex- 
pression in  the  second,  "  more  happy  to  be  un- 
happy in  hell,"  is  it  not  very  quaint  ?  Accept  my 
thanks,  in  common  with  those  of  all  who  love  good 
poetry,  for  "The  Braes  of  Yarrow."  I  congratulate 
you  on  the  enemies  you  must  have  made  by  your 
splendid  invective  against  the  barterers  in  human 
flesh  and  sinews.  Coleridge,  you  will  rejoice  to 
hear  that  Cowper  is  recovered  from  his  lunacy,  and 
is  employed  on  his  translation  of  the  Italian,  etc., 
poems  of  Milton  for  an  edition  where  Fuseli  pre- 
sides as  designer.  Coleridge,  to  an  idler  like 
myself,  to  write  and  receive  letters  are  both  very 
pleasant;  but  I  wish  not  to  break  in  upon  your 
valuable  time  by  expecting  to  hear  very  frequently 
from  you.  Reserve  that  obligation  for  your  mo- 
ments of  lassitude,  when  you  have  nothing  else  to 
do  ;  for  your  loco-restive  and  all  your  idle  propen- 
sities, of  course,  have  given  way  to  the  duties  of 
providing  for  a  family.  The  mail  is  come  in,  but 
no  parcel ;  yet  this  is  Tuesday.  Farewell,  then, 
till  to-morrow ;  for  a  niche  and  a  nook  I  must  leave 
for  criticisms.  By  the  way,  I  hope  you  do  not  send 
your  own  only  copy  of  "Joan  of  Arc;  "  I  will  in 
that  case  return  it  immediately. 

Your  parcel  is  come  ;  you  have  been  lavish  of 
your  presents. 

Wordsworth's  poem  I  have  hurried  through,  not 
without  delight.  Poor  Lovell  !  my  heart  almost 
accuses  me  for  the  light  manner  I  lately  spoke  of 
him,  not  dreaming  of  his  death.     My  heart  bleeds 


36  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

for  your  accumulated  troubles ;  God  send  you 
through  'eijL,with  patience.  I  conjure  you  dream 
not  that  I  will  ever  think  of  being  repaid  ;  the  very 
word  is  galling  to  the  ears.  I  have  read  all  your 
"Religious  Musings"  with  uninterrupted  feelings 
of  profound  admiration.  You  may  safely  rest  your 
fame  on  it.  The  best  remaining  things  are  what  I 
have  before  read,  and  they  lose  nothing  by  my 
recollection  of  your  manner  of  rec'ting  'em,  for  I 
too  bear  in  mind  "  the  voice,  the  look,"  of  absent 
friends,  and  can  occasionally  mimic  their  manner 
for  the  amusement  of  those  who  have  seen  'em. 
Your  impassioned  manner  of  recitation  I  can  recall 
at  any  time  to  mine  own  heart  and  to  the  ears 
of  the  bystanders.  I  rather  wish  you  had  left  the 
monody  on  Chatterton  concluding,  as  it  did,  ab- 
ruptly. It  had  more  of  unity.  The  conclusion 
of  your  '■'  Religious  Musings,"  I  fear,  will  entitle  you 
to  the  reproof  of  your  beloved  woman,  who  wisely 
will  not  suffer  your  fancy  to  run  riot,  but  bids  you 
walk  humbly  with  your  God.  The  very  last  words,  "  I 
exercise  my  young  novitiate  thought  in  ministeries 
of  heart-stirring  song,"  though  not  now  new  to  me, 
cannot  be  enough  admired.  To  speak  politely,  they 
are  a  well-turned  compliment  to  poetry.  I  hasten 
to  read  "Joan  of  Arc,"  etc.  I  have  read  your  lines 
at  the  beginning  of  second  book  ;  ^  they  are  worthy 
of  Milton,  but  in  my  mind  yield  to  your  "  Religious 
Musings."  I  shall  read  the  whole  carefully,  and 
in  some  future  letter  take  the  liberty  to  particularize 

^  Coleridge  contributed  some  four  hundred  lines  to  the 
second  book  of  Southey's  epic. 


LETTERS  OE  CHARLES  LAMB.  37 

my  opinions  of  it.  Of  what  is  new  to  me  among 
your  poems  next  to  the  "Musings,"  that  beginning 
"  My  Pensive  Sara  "  gave  me  most  pleasure.  The 
lines  in  it  I  just  alluded  to  are  most  exquisite ;  they 
made  my  sister  and  self  smile,  as  conveying  a 
pleasing  picture  of  Mrs.  C.  checking  your  wild 
wanderings,  which  we  were  so  fond  of  hearing  you 
indulge  when  among  us.  It  has  endeared  us  more 
than  anything  to  your  good  lady,  and  your  own  self- 
reproof  that  follows  delighted  us.  T  is  a  charming 
poem  throughout  (you  have  well  remarked  that 
charming,  admirable,  exquisite  are  the  words  ex- 
pressive of  feelings  more  than  conveying  of  ideas, 
else  I  might  plead  very  well  want  of  room  in  my 
paper  as  excuse  for  generalizing).  I  want  room 
to  tell  you  how  we  are  charmed  with  your  verses  in 
the  manner  of  Spenser,  etc.  I  am  glad  you  resume 
the  "  Watchman."  Change  the  name ;  leave  out 
all  articles  of  news,  and  whatever  things  are  pecu- 
liar to  newspapers,  and  confine  yourself  to  ethics, 
verse,  criticism  ;  or,  rather,  do  not  confine  your- 
self. Let  your  plan  be  as  diffuse  as  the  "  Specta- 
tor," and  I  '11  answer  for  it  the  work  prospers.  If 
I  am  vain  enough  to  think  I  can  be  a  contributor, 
rely  on  my  inclinations.  Coleridge,  in  reading 
your  "  Religious  Musings,"  I  felt  a  transient  supe- 
riority over  you.  I  have  seen  Priestley.  I  love  to 
see  his  name  repeated  in  your  writings.  I  love 
and  honor  him  almost  profanely.  You  would  be 
charmed  with  his  Serfiiotis,  if  you  never  read  'em. 
You  have  doubtless  read  his  books  illustrative  of  the 
doctrine  of  Necessity.     Prefixed  to  a  late  work  of 


38  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

his  in  answer  to  Paine,  there  is  a  preface  giving  an 
account  of  the  man  and  his  services  to  men,  written 
by  Lindsey,  his  dearest  friend,  well  worth  your 
reading. 

Tuesday  Eve.  —  Forgive  my  prolixity,  which  is  yet 
too  brief  for  all  I  could  wish  to  say.  God  give  you 
comfort,  and  all  that  are  of  your  household  !  Our 
loves  and  best  good-wishes  to  Mrs.  C. 

C.   Lamt.. 


III. 

TO   COLERIDGE. 

June  10,  1796. 

With  "Joan  of  Arc"  I  have  been  delighted, 
amazed.  I  had  not  presumed  to  expect  anything  of 
such  excellence  from  Southey.  Why,  the  poem  is 
alone  sufficient  to  redeem  the  character  of  the  age 
we  live  in  from  the  imputation  of  degenerating  in 
poetry,  were  there  no  such  beings  extant  as  Burns, 

and  Bowles,  Cowper,  and ,  —  fill  up  the  blank 

how  you  please  ;  I  say  nothing.  The  subject  is  well 
chosen  ;  it  opens  well.  To  become  more  particular, 
I  will  notice  in  their  order  a  few  passages  that  chiefly 
struck  me  on  perusal.  Page  26  :  "  Fierce  and  terri- 
ble Benevolence  !  "  is  a  phrase  full  of  grandeur  and 
originality.  The  whole  context  made  me  feel  pos- 
sessed, even  like  Joan  herself.  Page  28  :  "  It  is  most 
horrible  with  the  keen  sword  to  gore  the  finely  fibred 
human  frame,"  and  what  follows,  pleased  me  might- 
ily. In  the  second  book,  the  first  forty  lines  in  par- 
ticular are  majestic  and  high-sounding.     Indeed,  the 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  39 

whole  vision  of  the  Palace  of  Ambition  and  what 
follows  are  supremely  excellent.  Your  simile  of  the 
Laplander,  "  By  Niemi's  lake,  or  Balda  Zhiok,  or  the 
mossy  stone  of  Solfar-Kapper,"  ^  will  bear  compar- 
ison with  any  in  Milton  for  fulness  of  circumstance 
and  lofty-pacedness  of  versification.  Southey's 
similes,  though  many  of  'em  are  capital,  are  all  in- 
ferior. In  one  of  his  books,  the  simile  of  the  oak 
in  the  storm  occurs,  I  think,  four  times.  To  return  : 
the  light  in  which  you  view  the  heathen  deities  is 
accurate  and  beautiful.  Southey's  personifications 
in  this  book  are  so  many  fine  and  faultless  pictures. 
I  was  much  pleased  with  your  manner  of  accounting 
for  the  reason  why  monarchs  take  delight  in  war. 
At  the  447th  hne  you  have  placed  Prophets  and 
Enthusiasts  cheek  by  jowl,  on  too  intimate  a  footing 
for  the  dignity  of  the  former.  Necessarian-like- 
speaking,  it  is  correct.  Page  98  :  "  Dead  is  the 
Douglas  !  cold  thy  warrior  frame,  illustrious  Buchan," 
etc.,  are  of  kindred  excellence  with  Gray's  "  Cold  is 
Cadwallo's  tongue,"  etc.  How  famously  the  Maid 
baffles  the  Doctors,  Seraphic  and  Irrefragable, 
"with  all  their  trumpery!"  Page  126:  the  pro- 
cession, the  appearances  of  the  Maid,  of  the  Bastard 
Son  of  Orleans,  and  oi  Tremouille,  are  full  of  fire 
and  fancy,  and  exquisite  melody  of  versification. 
The  personifications  from  line  303  to  309,  in  the 
heat  of  the  battle,  had  better  been  omitted ;  they 
are  not  very  striking,  and  only  encumber.  The 
converse  which  Joan  and  Conrade  hold  on  the  banks 

1  Lapland    mountains.      From    Coleridge's   "  Destiny   of 
Nations." 


40  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

of  the  Loire  is  altogether  beautiful.  Page  313  : 
the  conjecture  that  in  dreams  "  all  things  are  that 
seem,"  is  one  of  those  conceits  which  the  poet  de- 
lights to  admit  into  his  creed,  — a  creed,  by  the  way, 
more  marvellous  and  mystic  than  ever  Athanasius 
dreamed  of.  Page  315  :  I  need  only  mention  those 
lines  ending  with  "  She  saw  a  serpent  gnawing  at 
her  heart  !  "  They  are  good  imitative  lines  :  "  he 
toiled  and  toiled,  of  toil  to  reap  no  end,  but  endless 
toil  and  never-ending  woe."  Page  347  :  Cruelty  is 
such  as  Hogarth  might  have  painted  her.  Page 
361  :  all  the  passage  about  Love  (where  he  seems  to 
confound  conjugal  love  with  creating  and  preserving 
love)  is  very  confused,  and  sickens  me  with  a  load 
of  useless  personifications  ;  else  that  ninth  book  is 
the  finest  in  the  volume,  —  an  exquisite  combination 
of  the  ludicrous  and  the  terrible.  I  have  never  read 
either,  even  in  translation,  but  such  I  conceive  to 
be  the  manner  of  Dante  or  Ariosto.  The  tenth 
book  is  the  most  languid. 

On  the  whole,  considering  the  celerity  wherewith 
the  poem  was  finished,  I  was  astonished  at  the 
unfrequency  of  weak  lines.  I  had  expected  to  find 
it  verbose.  Joan,  I  think,  does  too  little  in  battle, 
Dunois  perhaps  the  same  ;  Conrade  too  much.  The 
anecdotes  interspersed  among  the  battles  refresh  the 
mind  very  agreeably,  and  I  am  delighted  with  the 
very  many  passages  of  simple  pathos  abounding 
throughout  the  poem,  —  passages  which  the  author  of 
"Crazy  Kate  "  might  have  written.  Has  not  Master 
Southey  spoke  very  slightingly  in  his  preface  and 
disparagingly  of  Cowper's    Homer?     What    makes 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  41 

him  reluctant  to  give  Cowper  his  fame  ?  And  does 
not  Southey  use  too  often  the  expletives  '•'  did  "  and 
"does"?  They  have  a  good  effect  at  times,  but 
are  too  inconsiderable,  or  rather  become  blemishes 
when  they  mark  a  style.  On  the  whole,  I  expect 
Southey  one  day  to  rival  Milton ;  I  already  deem 
him  equal  to  Cowper,  and  superior  to  all  living  poets 
besides.  What  says  Coleridge  ?  The  "  Monody  on 
Henderson  "  is  immensely  good ;  the  rest  of  that  little 
volume  is  readable  and  above  mediocrity}  I  pro- 
ceed to  a  more  pleasant  task,  —  pleasant  because  the 
poems  are  yours ;  pleasant  because  you  impose  the 
task  on  me  ;  and  pleasant,  let  me  add,  because  it 
will  confer  a  whimsical  importance  on  me  to  sit  in 
judgment  upon  your  rhymes.  First,  though,  let  me 
thank  you  again  and  again,  in  my  own  and  my 
sister's  name,  for  your  invitations.  Nothing  could 
give  us  more  pleasure  than  to  come ;  but  (were 
there  no  other  reasons)  while  my  brother's  leg  is  so 
bad,  it  is  out  of  the  question.  Poor  fellow  !  he  is 
very  feverish  and  light-headed  ;  but  Cruikshanks  has 
pronounced  the  symptoms  favourable,  and  gives  us 
every  hope  that  there  will  be  no  need  of  amputa- 
tion. God  send  not !  We  are  necessarily  confined 
with  him  all  the  afternoon  and  evening  till  very  late, 
so  that  I  am  stealing  a  few  minutes  to  write  to  you. 
Thank  you  for  your  frequent  letters ;  you  are 
the  only  correspondent  and,  I  might  add,  the  only  '^ 
friend  I  have  in    the  world.     I  go    nowhere,    and 

1  The  "  Monody  "  referred  to  was  by  Cottle,  and  appeared 
in  a  volume  of  poems  published  by  him  at  Bristol  in  1795. 
Coleridge  had  forwarded  the  book  to  Lamb  for  his  opinion. 


42  LETTERS   OE  CHARLES  LAMB. 

have  no  acquaintance.  Slow  of  speech  and  reserved 
of  manners,  no  one  seeks  or  cares  for  my  society, 
and  1  am  left  alone.  Austin  calls  only  occasionally, 
as  though  it  were  a  duty  rather,  and  seldom  stays 
ten  minutes.  Then  judge  how  thankful  I  am  for 
your  letters !  Do  not,  however,  burden  yourself 
with  the  correspondence.  I  trouble  you  again  so 
soon  only  in  obedience  to  your  injunctions.  Com- 
plaints apart,  proceed  we  to  our  task.  I  am 
called  away  to  tea,  —  thence  must  wait  upon  my 
brother ;  so  must  delay  till  to-morrow.  Farewell ! 
—  Wed?iesday. 

Thursday.  —  I  will  first  notice  what  is  new  to  me. 
Thirteenth  page  :  "  The  thrilling  tones  that  concen- 
trate the  soul  "  is  a  nervous  line,  and  the  six  first 
lines  of  page  14  are  very  pretty,  the  twenty-first 
effusion  a  perfect  thing.  That  in  the  manner  of 
Spenser  is  very  sweet,  particularly  at  the  close  ;  the 
thirty-fifth  effusion  is  most  exquisite,  —  that  line  in 
particular,  "  And,  tranquil,  muse  upon  tranquillity." 
It  is  the  very  reflex  pleasure  that  distinguishes  the 
tranquillity  of  a  thinking  being  from  that  of  a  shep- 
herd, —  a  modern  one  I  would  be  understood  to 
mean,  —  a  Damoetas  ;  one  that  keeps  other  people's 
sheep.  Certainly,  Coleridge,  your  letter  from  Shur- 
ton  Bars  has  less  merit  than  most  things  in  your 
volume  ;  personally  it  may  chime  in  best  with  your 
own  feelings,  and  therefore  you  love  it  best.  It 
has,  however,  great  merit.  In  your  fourth  epistle 
that  is  an  exquisite  paragraph,  and  fancy-full,  of  "  A 
stream  there  is  which  rolls  in  lazy  flow,"  etc.  "  Mur- 
murs sweet    undersong   'mid   jasmin  bowers"  is  a 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  43 

sweet  line,  and  so  are  the  three  next.  The  con- 
cluding simile  is  far-fetched  ;  "  tempest-honored  " 
is  a  quaintish  phrase. 

Yours  is  a  poetical  family.  I  was  much  surprised 
and  pleased  to  see  the  signature  of  Sara  to  that 
elegant  composition,  the  fifth  episde.  I  dare  not 
criticise  the  "Religious  Musings;"  I  like  not  to 
select  any  part,  where  all  is  excellent.  I  can  only 
admire,  and  thank  you  for  it  in  the  name  of  a  Chris- 
tian, as  well  as  a  lover  of  good  poetry ;  only  let  me 
ask,  is  not  that  thought  and  those  words  in  Young, 
"stands  in  the  sun,"  —  or  is  it  only  such  as  Young, 
in  one  of  his  better  moments,  might  have  writ  ? 

"  Believe  thou,  O  my  soul, 
Life  is  a  vision  shadowy  of  Truth  ; 
And  vice,  and  anguish,  and  the  wormy  grave, 
Shapes  of  a  dream !  " 

I  thank  you  for  these  lines  in  the  name  of  a  neces- 
sarian, and  for  what  follows  in  next  paragraph,  in 
the  name  of  a  child  of  fancy.  After  all,  you  cannot 
nor  ever  will  write  anything  with  which  I  shall  be  so 
delighted  as  what  I  have  heard  yourself  repeat.  You 
came  to  town,  and  I  saw  you  at  a  time  when  your 
heart  was  yet  bleeding  with  recent  wounds.  Like 
yourself,  I  was  sore  galled  with  disappointed  hope ; 
you  had 

"  Many  an  holy  lay 
That,  mourning,  soothed  the  mourner  on  his  way." 

I  had  ears  of  sympathy  to  drink  them  in,  and  they 
yet  vibrate  pleasant  on  the  sense.  When  I  read  in 
your  little  volume  your  nineteenth  effusion,  or  the 
twenty-eighth  or  twenty- ninth,  or  what  you  call  the 


44  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

"  Sigh,"  I  think  I  hear  you  again.  I  image  to  my- 
self the  little  smoky  room  at  the  "  Salutation  and 
Cat,"  where  we  have  sat  together  through  the  winter 
nights,  beguiling  the  cares  of  life  with  poesy.  When 
you  left  London,  I  felt  a  dismal  void  in  my  heart. 
I  found  myself  cut  off,  at  one  and  the  same  time, 
from  two  most  dear  to  me.  "  How  blest  with  ye 
the  path  could  I  have  trod  of  quiet  Hfe  !  "  In  your 
conversation  you  had  blended  so  many  pleasant  fan- 
cies that  they  cheated  me  of  my  grief;  but  in  your 
absence  the  tide  of  melancholy  rushed  in  again,  and 
/did  its  worst  mischief  by  overwhelming  my  reason. 
I  have  recovered,  but  feel  a  stupor  that  makes  me 
indifferent  to  the  hopes  and  fears  of  this  life.  I 
sometimes  wish  to  introduce  a  religious  turn  of 
mind  ;  but  habits  are  strong  things,  and  my  religious 
fervours  are  confined,  alas  !  to  some  fleeting  mo- 
ments of  occasional  solitary  devotion. 
/  A  correspondence,  opening  with  you,  has  roused 
/  me  a  little  from  my  lethargy  and  made  me  conscious 
\  of  existence.  Indulge  me  in  it ;  I  will  not  be  very 
^  troublesome  !  At  some  future  time  I  will  amuse 
you  with  an  account,  as  full  as  my  memory  will  per- 
mit, of  the  strange  turn  my  frenzy  took.  1  look 
back  upon  it  at  times  with  a  gloomy  kind  of  envy ; 
for  while  it  lasted,  I  had  many,  many  hours  of  pure 
happiness.  Dream  not,  Coleridge,  of  having  tasted 
all  the  grandeur  and  wildness  of  fancy  till  you  have 
gone  mad  !  All  now  seems  to  me  vapid,  —  compar- 
atively so.  Excuse  this  selfish  digression.  Your 
"  Monody  " '  is  so  superlatively  excellent  that  I  can 
1  The  Monody  on  Cliatterton. 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  45 

only  wish  it  perfect,  which  I  can't  help  feeling  it  is 
not  quite.  Indulge  me  in  a  few  conjectures ;  what 
I  am  going  to  propose  would  make  it  more  com- 
pressed and,  I  think,  more  energetic,  though,  I  am 
sensible,  at  the  expense  of  many  beautiful  lines. 
Let  it  begin,  "  Is  this  the  land  of  song-ennobled 
line?  "  and  proceed  to  "  Otway's  famished  form  ;  " 
then,  "  Thee,  Chatterton,"  to  "  blaze  of  Seraphim  ;  " 
then,  "  clad  in  Nature's  rich  array,"  to  "  orient 
day ;  "  then,  "  but  soon  the  scathing  lightning,"  to 
"  blighted  land  ;  "  then,  "  sublime  of  thought,"  to 
''  his  bosom  glows  ;  "  then 

"  But  soon  upon  his  poor  unsheltered  head 
Did  Penury  her  sickly  mildew  shed  ; 
Ah  !  where  are  fled  the  charms  of  vernal  grace. 

And  joy's  wild  gleams  that  lightened  o'er  his  face." 

Then  '•  3-outh  of  tumultuous  soul"  to  '•  sigh,"  as 
before.  The  rest  may  all  stand  down  to  "  gaze  upon 
the  waves  below."  What  follows  now  may  come 
next  as  detached  verses,  suggested  by  the  "  Mon- 
ody," rather  than  a  part  of  it.  They  are,  indeed, 
in  themselves,  very  sweet ; 

"  And  we,  at  sober  eve,  would  round  thee  throng, 
Hanging  enraptured  on  thy  stately  song  ! " 

in  particular,  perhaps.  If  I  am  obscure,  you  may 
understand  me  by  counting  lines.  I  have  proposed 
omitting  twenty-four  lines ;  I  feel  that  thus  com- 
pressed it  would  gain  energy,  but  think  it  most 
likely  you  will  not  agree  with  me  ;  for  who  shall  go 
about  to  bring  opinions  to  the  bed  of  Procrustes, 
and  introduce  among  the  sons  of  men  a  monotony 


46      LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

of  identical  feelings?  I  only  propose  with  diffidence. 
Reject  you,  if  you  please,  with  as  little  remorse  as 
you  would  the  color  of  a  coat  or  the  pattern  of  a 
buckle,  where  our  fancies  differed. 

The  "  Pixies  "  is  a  perfect  thing,  and  so  are  the 
"Lines  on  the  Spring,"  page  28.  The  "Epitaph 
on  an  Infant,"  like  a  Jack-o'-lantern,  has  danced 
about  (or  like  Dr.  Forster's^  scholars)  out  of  the 
"Morning  Chronicle"  into  the  "Watchman,"  and 
thence  back  into  your  collection.  It  is  very  pretty, 
and  you  seem  to  think  so,  bu^  may  be,  o'erlooked 
its  chief  merit,  that  of  filling  up  a  whole  page.  I 
had  once  deemed  sonnets  of  unrivalled  use  that  way, 
but  your  Epitaphs,  I  find,  are  the  more  diffuse. 
"  Edmund  "  still  holds  its  place  among  your  best 
verses.  "Ah  !  fair  delights  "  to  "roses  round,"  in 
your  poem  called  "  Absence,"  recall  (none  more 
forcibly)  to  my  mind  the  tones  in  which  yoii  recited 
it.  I  will  not  notice,  in  this  tedious  (to  you)  man- 
ner, verses  which  have  been  so  long  delighful  to  me, 
and  which  you  already  know  my  opinion  of.  Of 
this  kind  are  Bowles,  Priestley,  and  that  most  exqui- 
site and  most  Bowles-like  of  all,  the  nineteenth  effu- 
sion. It  would  have  better  ended  with  "  agony  of 
care ;  "  the  last  two  lines  are  obvious  and  unneces- 
sary ;  and  you  need  not  now  make  fourteen  lines  of 
it,  now  it  is  rechristened  from  a  Sonnet  to  an 
Effusion. 

Schiller  might  have  written  the  twentieth  effu- 
sion ;  't  is  worthy  of  him  in  any  sense.  I  was  glad 
to  meet  with  those    lines  you  sent    me   when   my 

^  Dr.  Faustus's. 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  47 

sister  was  so  ill ;  I  had  lost  the  copy,  and  I  felt 
not  a  little  proud  at  seeing  my  name  in  your  verse. 
The  "  Complaint  of  Ninathoma"  (first  stanza  in  par- 
ticular) is  the  best,  or  only  good,  imitation  of 
Ossian  I  ever  saw,  your  "  Restless  Gale  "  excepted. 
"  To  an  Infant  "  is  most  sweet ;  is  not  "  foodful," 
though,  very  harsh?  Would  not  "dulcet"  fruit 
be  less  harsh,  or  some  other  friendly  bi-syllable? 
In  "  Edmund,"  "  Frenzy  !  fierce-eyed  child  "  is  not 
so  well  as  "■  frantic,"  though  that  is  an  epithet  add- 
ing nothing  to  the  meaning.  Slander  couching  was 
better  than  "squatting."  In  the  "  Man  of  Ross" 
it  was  a  better  line   thus, — 

"  If  'neath  this  roof  thy  wine-cheered  moments  pass," 

than  as  it  stands  now.  Time  nor  nothing  can 
reconcile  me  to  the  concluding  five  lines  of  "  Kos- 
ciusko ;  "  call  it  anything  you  will  but  sublime. 
In  my  twelfth  effusion  I  had  rather  have  seen  what 
I  wrote  myself,  though  they  bear  no  comparison 
with  your  exquisite   lines,  — 

"  On  rose-leaf  d  beds  amid  your  faery  bowers,"  etc. 

I  love  my  sonnets  because  they  are  the  reflected 
images  of  my  own  feelings  at  different  times.  To 
instance,  in  the  thirteenth,  — 

"  How  reason  reeled,"  etc, 
are  good  lines,  but  must  spoil  the  whole  with  me, 
who  know  it  is  only  a  fiction  of  yours,  and  that  the 
"  rude  dashings "  did  in  fact  not  "  rock  me  to 
repose."  I  grant  the  same  objection  appUes  not 
to  the  former  sonnet ;  but  still  I  love  my  own  feel- 
ings, —  they  are  dear  to  memory,  though  they  now 


48  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

and  then  wake  a  sigh  or  a  tear.  "Thinking  on 
divers  things  fordone,"  I  charge  you,  Coleridge, 
spare  my  ewe-lambs ;  and  though  a  gentleman  may 
borrow  six  lines  in  an  epic  poem  (I  should  have 
no  objection  to  borrow  five  hundred,  and  without 
acknowledging),  still,  in  a  sonnet,  a  personal  poem, 
I  do  not  "  ask  my  friend  the  aiding  verse ;  "  I 
would  not  wrong  your  feelings  by  proposing  any 
improvements  (did  I  think  myself  capable  of  sug- 
gesting 'em)  in  such  personal  poems  as  "Thou 
bleedest,  my  poor  heart,"  — 'od  so,  —  I  am  caught, 
—  I  have  already  done  it ;  but  that  simile  I  propose 
abridging  would  not  change  the  feeling  or  introduce 
any  alien  ones.  Do  you  understand  me  ?  In  the 
twenty- eighth,  however,  and  in  the  "  Sigh,"  and 
that  composed  at  Clevedon,  things  that  come  from 
the  heart  direct,  not  by  the  medium  of  the  fancy, 
I  would  not  suggest  an  alteration. 

When  my  blank  verse  is  finished,  or  any  long 
fancy  poem,  "  propino  tibi  alterandum,  cut-up- 
andum,  abridgeandum,"  just  what  you  will  with  it ; 
but  spare  my  ewe-lambs  !  That  to  "  Mrs.  Siddons," 
now,  you  were  welcome  to  improve,  if  it  had  been 
worth  it ;  but  I  say  unto  you  again,  Coleridge,  spare 
my  ewe-lambs  !  I  must  confess,  were  they  mine, 
I  should  omit,  in  editione  secunda,  effusions  two  and 
three,  because  satiric  and  below  the  dignity  of  the 
poet  of  "  Religious  Musings,"  fifth,  seventh,  half 
of  the  eighth,  that  "Written  in  early  youth,"  as  far 
as  "thousand  eyes,"  —  though  I  part  not  unreluc- 
tantly  with  that  lively  line,  — 

"Chaste  joyance  dancing  in  her  bright  blue  eyes," 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  49 

and  one  or  two  just  thereabouts.  But  I  would  sub- 
stitute for  it  that  sweet  poem  called  "  Recollection," 
in  the  fifth  number  of  the  "  Watchman,"  better, 
I  think,  than  the  remainder  of  this  poem,  though 
not  differing  materially ;  as  the  poem  now  stands, 
it  looks  altogether  confused.  And  do  not  omit  those 
lines  upon  the  "  Early  Blossom  "  in  your  sixth  num- 
ber of  the  "Watchman;"  and  I  would  omit  the 
tenth  effusion,  or  what  would  do  better,  alter  and 
improve  the  last  four  lines.  In  fact,  I  suppose, 
if  they  were  mine,  I  should  not  omit  'em  ;  but  your 
verse  is,  for  the  most  part,  so  exquisite  that  I 
like  not  to  see  aught  of  meaner  matter  mixed  with 
it.  Forgive  my  petulance  and  often,  I  fear,  ill- 
founded  criticisms,  and  forgive  me  that  I  have, 
by  this  time,  made  your  eyes  and  head  ache  with 
my  long  letter;  but  I  cannot  forego  hastily  the 
pleasure  and  pride  of  thus  conversing  with  you. 
You  did  not  tell  me  whether  I  was  to  include  the 
"  Conciones  ad  Populum  "  in  my  remarks  on  your 
poems.  They  are  not  unfrequently  sublime,  and 
I  think  you  could  not  do  better  than  to  turn  'em 
into  verse,  —  if  you  have  nothing  else  to  do.  Aus- 
tin, I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  a  confinned  atheist.  Stod- 
dart,  a  cold-hearted,  well-bred,  conceited  disciple  of 
Godwin,  does  him  no  good.  His  wife  has  several 
daughters  (one  of  'em  as  old  as  himself).  Surely 
there  is  something  unnatural  in  such  a  marriage. 

How  I   sympathize  with  you  on  the  dull  duty  of 
a  review^er,  and  heartily  damn  with  you  Ned  Evans 
and    the   Prosodist !     I   shall,  however,  wait  impa- 
tiently for  the  articles    in    the  "  Critical  Review " 
4 


50  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

next  month,  because  they  are  joins.  Young  Evans 
(VV.  Evans,  a  branch  of  a  family  you  were  once 
so  intimate  with)  is  come  into  our  office,  and  sends 
his  love  to  you.  Coleridge,  I  devoutly  wish  that 
Fortune,  who  has  made  sport  with  you  so  long,  may 
play  one  freak  more,  throw  you  into  Eon  don  or 
some  spot  near  it,  and  there  snug-ify  you  for  life. 
'T  is  a  selfish  but  natural  wish  for  me,  cast  as  I  am 
"  on  life's  wide  plain,  friendless."  Are  you  ac- 
quainted with  Bowles?  I  see  by  his  last  Elegy  (writ- 
ten at  Bath)  you  are  near  neighbors.  —  Thursday. 

"  And  I  can  think  I  can  see  the  groves  again ;  " 
"Was  it  the  voice  of  thee  ;  "  "  Turns  not  the  voice 
of  thee,  my  buried  friend  ;  "  "  Who  dries  with  her 
dark  locks  the  tender  tear,"  —  are  touches  as  true 
to  Nature  as  any  in  his  other  Elegy,  written  at  the 
Hot  Wells,  about  poor  Kassell,  etc.  You  are  doubt- 
less acquainted  with  it. 

I  do  not  know  that  I  entirely  agree  with  you  in 
your  stricture  upon  my  sonnet  "To  Innocence." 
To  men  whose  hearts  are  not  quite  deadened  by 
their  commerce  with  the  world,  innocence  (no 
longer  familiar)  becomes  an  awful  idea.  So  I  felt 
when  I  wrote  it.  Your  other  censures  (qualified 
and  sweetened,  though,  with  praises  somewhat  ex- 
travagant) I  perfectly  coincide  with ;  yet  I  choose 
to  retain  the  word  "lunar,"  —  indulge  a  "lunatic" 
in  his  loyalty  to  his  mistress  the  moon  !  I  have  just 
been  reading  a  most  pathetic  copy  of  verses  on 
Sophia  Pringle,  who  was  hanged  and  burned  for  coin- 
ing. One  of  the  strokes  of  pathos  (which  are  very 
many,  all  somewhat  obscure)  is,  "  She  lifted  up  her 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  51 

guilty  forger  to  heaven."  A  note  explains,  by  "  for- 
ger," her  right  hand,  with  which  she  forged  or  coined 
the  base  metal.  For  "  pathos  "  read  "  bathos."  You 
have  put  me  out  of  conceit  with  my  blank  verse  by 
your  "  Religious  Musings."  I  think  it  will  come  to 
nothing.  I  do  not  like  'em  enough  to  send  'em.  I 
have  just  been  reading  a  book,  which  I  may  be  too 
partial  to,  as  it  was  the  delight  of  my  childhood  ;  but 
I  will  recommend  it  to  you,  —  it  is  Izaak  Walton's 
"Complete  Angler."  All  the  scientific  part  you  may 
omit  in  reading.  The  dialogue  is  very  simple,  full  of 
pastoral  beauties,  and  will  charm  you.  Many  pretty 
old  verses  are  interspersed.  This  letter,  which  would 
be  a  week's  work  reading  only,  I  do  not  wish  you  to 
answer  in  less  than  a  month.  I  shall  be  richly  con- 
tent with  a  letter  from  you  some  day  early  in  July ;  \ 
though,  if  you  get  anyhow  settled  before  then,  pray  r*^' 
let  me  know  it  immediately  ;  't  would  give  me  much 
satisfaction.  Concerning  the  Unitarian  chapel,  the 
salary  is  the  only  scruple  that  the  most  rigid  moral- 
ist would  admit  as  valid.  Concerning  the  tutorage, 
is  not  the  salary  low,  and  absence  from  your  family 
unavoidable?  London  is  the  only  fostering  soil  for 
genius.  Nothing  more  occurs  just  now ;  so  I  will 
leave  you,  in  mercy,  one  small  white  spot  empty 
below,  to  repose  your  eyes  upon,  fatigued  as  they 
must  be  with  the  wilderness  of  words  they  have  by 
this  time  painfully  travelled  through.  God  love  you, 
Coleridge,  and  prosper  you  through  life  !  though 
mine  will  be  loss  if  your  lot  is  to  be  cast  at  Bristol, 
or  at  Nottingham,  or  anywhere  but  London.  Our 
loves  to  Mrs.  C .  C.  L. 


52  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

IV. 

TO  COLERIDGE. 

Jime  14,  1796. 

I  AM  not  quite  satisfied  now  with  the  Chatterton,^ 
and  with  your  leave  will  try  my  hand  at  it  again.  A 
master-joiner,  you  know,  may  leave  a  cabinet  to  be 
finished,  when  his  own  hands  are  full.  To  your  list  of 
illustrative  personifications,  into  which  a  fine  imagi- 
nation enters,  I  will  take  leave  to  add  the  following 
from  Beaumont  and  Pletcher's  "  Wife  for  a  Month  ;  " 
't  is  the  conclusion  of  a  description  of  a  sea-fight : 
"  The  game  of  death  was  never  played  so  nobly  ;  the 
meagre  thief  grew  wanton  in  his  mischiefs,  and  his 
shrunk,  hollow  eyes  smiled  on  his  ruins."  There  is 
fancy  in  these  of  a  lower  order  from  "  Bonduca  "  : 
"  Then  did  I  see  these  valiant  men  of  Britain,  like 
boding  owls  creep  into  tods  of  ivy,  and  hoot  their 
fears  to  one  another  nightly."  Not  that  it  is  a  per- 
sonification, only  it  just  caught  my  eye  in  a  little 
extract-book  I  keep,  which  is  full  of  quotations  from 
B.  and  F.  in  particular,  in  which  authors  I  can't  help 
thinking  there  is  a  greater  richness  of  poetical  fancy 
than  in  any  one,  Shakspeare  excepted.  Are  you 
acquainted  with  Massinger?  At  a  hazard  I  will 
trouble  you  with  a  passage  from  a  play  of  his  called 
"  A  Very  Woman."  The  lines  are  spoken  by  a  lover 
(disguised)  to  his  faithless  mistress.  You  will  re- 
mark the  fine  effect  of  the  double  endings.     You 

^  Coleridge's  "Monody"  on  Chattertoii. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  53 

will  by  your  ear  distinguish  tlie  lines,  for  I  write  'em 
as  prose.  "  Not  far  from  where  my  father  lives,  a 
lady,  a  neighbor  by,  blest  with  as  great  a  beauty  as 
Nature  durst  bestow  without  undoing,  dwelt,  and 
most  happily,  as  I  thought  then,  and  blest  the 
house  a  thousand  times  she  dwelt  in.  This  beauty, 
in  the  blossom  of  my  youth,  when  my  first  fire  knew 
no  adulterate  incense,  nor  I  no  way  to  flatter  but  my 
fondness ;  in  all  the  bravery  my  friends  could  show 
me,  in  all  the  faith  my  innocence  could  give  vie,  in 
the  best  language  my  true  tongue  could  tell  me,  and 
all  the  broken  sighs  my  sick  heart  lend  me,  I  sued 
and  served  ;  long  did  I  serve  this  lady,  long  was  my 
travail,  long  my  trade  to  win  her ;  with  all  the  duty 
of  my  soul  I  served  her."  "  Then  she  must  love." 
"  She  did,  but  never  me  :  she  could  not  love  me  ; 
she  would  not  love,  she  hated,  —  more,  she  scorn' d 
me ;  and  in  so  a  poor  and  base  a  way  abused  me  for 
all  my  services,  for  all  my  bounties,  so  bold  neglects 
flung  on  me."  "  What  out  of  love,  and  worthy  love, 
I  gave  her  (shame  to  her  most  unworthy  mind  !), 
to  fools,  to  girls,  to  fiddlers  and  her  boys  she  flung, 
all  in  disdain  of  me."  One  more  passage  strikes 
my  eye  from  B.  and  F.'s  "  Palamon  and  Arcite." 
One  of  'em  complains  in  prison  :  "  This  is  all  our 
world  ;  we  shall  know  nothing  here  but  one  another, 
hear  nothing  but  the  clock  that  tells  us  our  woes ; 
the  vine  shall  grow,  but  we  shall  never  see  it,"  etc. 
Is  not  the  last  circumstance  exquisite  ?  I  mean  not 
to  lay  myself  open  by  saying  they  exceed  Milton, 
and  perhaps  Collins  in  sublimity.  But  don't  you 
conceive  all  poets  after  Shakspeare  yield  to  'em  in 


54  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

variety  of  genius  ?  Massinger  treads  close  on  their 
heels ;  but  you  are  most  probably  as  well  acquainted 
with  his  writings  as  your  humble  servant.  My  quo- 
tations, in  that  case,  will  only  serve  to  expose  my 
barrenness  of  matter,  Southey  in  simplicity  and 
tenderness  is  excelled  decidedly  only,  I  think,  by 
Beaumont  and  F.  in  his  "  Maid's  Tragedy,"  and 
some  parts  of  "  Philaster "  in  particular,  and  else- 
where occasionally ;  and  perhaps  by  Cowper  in  his 
"  Crazy  Kate,"  and  in  parts  of  his  translation,  such 
as  the  speeches  of  Hecuba  and  Andromache.  I 
long  to  know  your  opinion  of  that  translation.  The 
Odyssey  especially  is  surely  very  Homeric.  What 
nobler  than  the  appearance  of  Phoebus  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  Iliad,  —  the  lines  ending  with  '*  Dread 
sounding,  bounding  on  the  silver  bow  !  " 

I  beg  you  will  give  me  your  opinion  of  the  trans- 
lation ;  it  afforded  me  high  pleasure.  As  curious  a 
specimen  of  translation  as  ever  fell  into  my  hands, 
is  a  young  man's  in  our  office,  of  a  French  novel. 
What  in  the  original  was  literally  "  amiable  delusions 
of  the  fancy,"  he  proposed  to  render  "  the  fair  frauds 
of  the  imagination."  I  had  much  trouble  in  licking 
the  book  into  any  meaning  at  all.  Yet  did  the 
knave  clear  fifty  or  sixty  pounds  by  subscription 
and  selling  the  copyright.  The  book  itself  not  a 
week's  work  !  To-day's  portion  of  my  journalizing 
epistle  has  been  very  dull  and  poverty-stricken.  I 
will  here  end. 

Luesday  night. 

I  have  been  drinking  egg-hot  and  smoking  Oro- 
nooko  (associated  circumstances,  which  ever  forci- 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB,  55 

bly  recall  to  my  mind  our  evenings  and  nights  at 
the  "Salutation").  My  eyes  and  brain  are  heavy 
and  asleep,  but  my  heart  is  awake ;  and  if  words 
came  as  ready  as  ideas,  and  ideas  as  feelings,  I 
could  say  ten  hundred  kind  things.  Coleridge,  you 
know  not  my  supreme  happiness  at  having  one 
on  earth  (though  counties  separate  us)  whom  I  can 
call  a  friend.  Remember  you  those  tender  lines 
of  Logan  ?  — 

"  Our  broken  friendships  we  deplore, 
And  loves  of  youth  that  are  no  more  ; 
No  after  friendships  e'er  can  raise 
Th'  endearments  of  our  early  days, 
And  ne'er  the  heart  such  fondness  prove. 
As  when  we  first  began  to  love." 

I  am  writing  at  random,  and  half- tipsy,  what  you 
may  not  equally  understand,  as  you  will  be  sober 
when  you  read  it  \  but  my  sober  and  my  half-tipsy 
hours  you  are  alike  a  sharer  in.     Good  night. 

"  Then  up  rose  our  bard,  like  a  prophet  in  drink, 
Craigdoroch,  thou 'It  soar  when  creation  shall  sink." 

Burns. 


TO  COLERIDGE. 

September  27,  1796. 
My  dearest  Friend,  —  White,  or  some  of  my 
friends,  or  the  public  papers,  by  this  time  may  have 
informed  you  of  the  terrible  calamities  that  have 
fallen  on  our  family.  I  will  only  give  you  the  out- 
line's :    My  poor   dear,  dearest    sister,    in    a    fit    of 


56  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

insanity,  has  been  the  death  of  her  own  mother. 
I  was  at  hand  only  time  enough  to  snatch  the  knife 
out  of  her  grasp.  She  is  at  present  in  a  madhouse, 
from  whence  I  fear  she  must  be  moved  to  an  hos- 
pital. God  has  preserved  to  me  my  senses,  —  I  eat, 
and  drink,  and  sleep,  and  have  my  judgment,  I 
believe,  very  sound.  My  poor  father  was  slightly 
wounded,  and  I  am  left  to  take  care  of  him  and  my 
aunt.  Mr.  Norris,  of  the  Blue-coat  School,  has  been 
very  kind  to  us,  and  we  have  no  other  friend  ;  but, 
thank  God,  I  am  very  calm  and  composed,  and  able 
to  do  the  best  that  remains  to  do.  Write  as  reli- 
gious a  letter  as  possible,  but  no  mention  of  what  is 
gone  and  done  with.  With  me  "  the  former  things 
are  passed  away,"  and  I  have  something  more  to  do 
than  to  feel. 

God  Almighty  have  us  all  in  his  keeping  ! 

C.  Lamb. 

Mention  nothing  of  poetry.  I  have  destroyed 
every  vestige  of  past  vanities  of  that  kind.  Do  as 
you  please,  but  if  you  publish,  publish  mine  (I  give 
free  leave)  without  name  or  initial,  and  never  send 
me  a  book,  I  charge  you. 

Your  own  judgment  will  convince  you  not  to  take 
any  notice  of  this  yet  to  your  dear  wife.  You  look 
after  your  family ;  I  have  my  reason  and  strength 
left  to  take  care  of  mine.  I  charge  you,  don't  think 
of  coming  to  see  me.  Write.  I  will  not  see  you,  if 
you  come.     God  Almighty  love  you  and  all  of  us  ! 

C.  Lamb. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  57 

VI. 

TO  COLERIDGE. 

October  3,  1796. 

My  dearest  Friend, — Your  letter  was  an  inesti- 
mable treasure  to  me.  It  will  be  a  comfort  to  you, 
I  know,  to  know  that  our  prospects  are  somewhat 
brighter.  My  poor  dear,  dearest  sister,  the  unhappy 
and  unconscious  instrument  of  the  Almighty's  judg- 
ments on  our  house,  is  restored  to  her  senses,  to  a 
dreadful  sense  and  recollection  of  what  has  past, 
awful  to  her  mind  and  impressive  (as  it  must  be  to 
the  end  of  life),  but  tempered  with  religious  resigna- 
tion and  the  reasonings  of  a  sound  judgment,  which 
in  this  early  stage  knows  how  to  distinguish  between 
a  deed  committed  in  a  transient  fit  of  frenzy,  and 
the  terrible  guilt  of  a  mother's  murder.  I  have  seen 
her.  I  found  her,  this  morning,  calm  and  serene ; 
far,  very,  very  far,  from  an  indecent,  forgetful  serenity. 
She  has  a  most  affectionate  and  tender  concern  for 
what  has  happened.  Indeed,  from  the  beginning, 
frightful  and  hopeless  as  her  disorder  seemed,  I  had 
confidence  enough  in  her  strength  of  mind  and  reli- 
gious principle  to  look  forward  to  a  time  when  even 
she  might  recover  tranquillity.  God  be  praised, 
Coleridge,  wonderful  as  it  is  to  tell,  I  have  never 
once  been  otherwise  than  collected  and  calm  ;  even 
on  the  dreadful  day  and  in  the  midst  of  the  terrible 
scene,  I  preserved  a  tranquillity  which  bystanders 
may  have  construed  into  indifference, —  a  tranquil- 


58  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

lity  not  of  despair.  Is  it  folly  or  sin  in  me  to  say 
that  it  was  a  religious  principle  that  most  supported 
me?  I  allow  much  to  other  favorable  circumstances. 
I  felt  that  I  had  something  else  to  do  than  to  regret. 
On  that  first  evening  my  aunt  was  lying  insensible, 
to  all  appearance  like  one  dying;  my  father  with 
his  poor  forehead  plastered  over,  from  a  wound  he 
had  received  from  a  daughter  dearly  loved  by  him, 
and  who  loved  him  no  less  dearly  ;  my  mother  a  dead 
and  murdered  corpse  in  the  next  room,  —  yet  was 
I  wonderfully  supported.  I  closed  not  my  eyes  in 
sleep  that  night,  but  lay  without  terrors  and  without 
despair.  I  have  lost  no  sleep  smce.  I  had  been 
long  used  not  to  rest  in  things  of  sense,  —  had  en- 
deavored after  a  comprehension  of  mind  unsatisfied 
with  the  "  ignorant  present  time  ;  "  and  this  kept 
me  up.  I  had  the  whole  weight  of  the  family  thrown 
on  me;  for  my  brother,^  little  disposed  (I  speak 
not  without  tenderness  for  him)  at  any  time  to  take 
care  of  old  age  and  infirmities,  had  now,  with  his  bad 
leg,  an  exemption  from  such  duties ;  and  I  was  now 
left  alone. 

One  little  incident  may  serve  to  make  you  under- 
stand my  way  of  managing  my  mind.  Within  a  day 
or  two  after  the  fatal  one,  we  dressed  for  dinner  a 
tongue  which  we  had  had  salted  for  some  weeks  in 
the  house.  As  I  sat  down,  a  feeling  like  remorse 
struck  me :  this  tongue  poor  Mary  got  for  me, 
and  can  I  partake  of  it  now,  when  she  is  far  away? 
A  thought  occurred  and  relieved  me  :    if  I   give  in 

'  John  Lamb,  the  "James  Elia  "  of  the  essay  "  My  Rela- 
tions." 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  59 

to  this  way  of  feeling,  there  is  not  a  chair,  a  room, 
an  object  in  our  rooms,  that  will  not  awaken  the 
keenest  griefs ;  I  must  rise  above  such  weaknesses. 
I  hope  this  was  not  want  of  true  feeling.  I  did  not 
let  this  carry  me,  though,  too  far.  On  the  very 
second  day  (I  date  from  the  day  of  horrors),  as  is 
usual  in  such  cases,  there  were  a  matter  of  twenty 
people,  I  do  think,  supping  in  our  room  ;  they  pre- 
vailed on  me  to  eat  with  them  (for  to  eat  I  never 
refused).  They  were  all  making  merry  in  the  room  ! 
Some  had  come  from  friendship,  some  from  busy 
curiosity,  and  some  from  interest.  I  was  going  to 
partake  with  them,  when  my  recollection  came  that 
my  poor  dead  mother  was  lying  in  the  next  room,  — 
the  very  next  room ;  a  mother  who  through  life 
wished  nothing  but  her  children's  welfare.  Indigna- 
tion, the  rage  of  grief,  something  like  remorse,  rushed 
upon  my  mind.  In  an  agony  of  emotion  I  found  my 
way  mechanically  to  the  adjoining  room,  and  fell  on 
my  knees  by  the  side  of  her  coffin,  asking  forgive- 
ness of  Heaven,  and  sometimes  of  her,  for  forgetting 
her  so  soon.  Tranquillity  returned,  and  it  was  the 
only  violent  emotion  that  mastered  me  ;  and  I  think 
it  did  me  good. 

I  mention  these  things  because  I  hate  conceal- 
ment, and  love  to  give  a  faithful  journal  of  what 
passes  within  me.  Our  friends  have  been  very 
good.  Sam  Le  Grice,^  who  was  then  in  town,  was 
with  me  the  three  or  four  first  days,  and  was  as 
a  brother  to  me,  gave  up  every  hour  of  his  time, 
to  the  very  hurting  of  his    health    and    spirits,    in 

1  A  Christ's  Hospital  schoolfellow. 


6o  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

constant  attendance  and  humoring  my  poor  father ; 
talked  with  him,  read  to  him,  played  at  cribbage 
with  him  (for  so  short  is  the  old  man's  recollection 
that  he  was  playing  at  cards,  as  though  nothing  had 
happened,  while  the  coroner's  inquest  was  sitting 
over  the  way!).  Samuel  wept  tenderly  when  he 
went  away,  for  his  mother  wrote  him  a  very  severe 
letter  on  his  loitering  so  long  in  town,  and  he  was 
forced  to  go.  Mr.  Norris,  of  Christ's  Hospital,  has 
been  as  a  father  to  me,  Mrs.  Norris  as  a  mother, 
though  we  had  few  claims  on  them.  A  gentleman, 
brother  to  my  god-mother,  from  whom  we  never 
had  right  or  reason  to  expect  any  such  assistance, 
sent  my  father  twenty  pounds;  and  to  crown  all 
these  God's  blessings  to  our  family  at  such  a  time, 
an  old  lady,  a  cousin  of  my  father  and  aunt's,  a 
gentlewoman  of  fortune,  is  to  take  my  aunt  and 
make  her  comfortable  for  the  short  remainder  of 
her  days.  My  aunt  is  recovered,  and  as  well  as 
ever,  and  highly  pleased  at  thoughts  of  going,  and 
has  generously  given  up  the  interest  of  her  little 
money  (which  was  formerly  paid  my  father  for  her 
board)  wholely  and  solely  to  my  sister's  use. 
Reckoning  this,  we  have,  Daddy  and  I,  for  our 
two  selves  and  an  old  maid-servant  to  look  after 
him  when  I  am  out,  which  will  be  necessary,  j[\,\']0, 
or  £,\%o  rather,  a  year,  out  of  which  we  can  spare 
JC:S^  or  ;^6o  at  least  for  Mary  while  she  stays  at 
Islington,  where  she  must  and  shall  stay  during  her 
father's  life,  for  his  and  her  comfort.  I  know  John 
will  make  speeches  about  it,  but  she  shall  not  go 
into  an  hospital.     The  good  lady  of  the  madhouse 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  6 1 

and  her  daughter,  an  elegant,  sweet-behaved  young 
lady,  love  her,  and  are  taken  with  her  amazingly ; 
and  I  know  from  her  own  mouth  she  loves  them, 
and  longs  to  be  with  them  as  much.  Poor  thing, 
they  say  she  was  but  the  other  morning  saying  she 
knew  she  must  go  to  Bethlem  for  life  ;  that  one 
of  her  brothers  would  have  it  so,  but  the  other 
would  wish  it  not,  but  be  obliged  to  go  with  the 
stream  ;  that  she  had  often,  as  she  passed  Bethlem, 
thought  it  likely,  "  here  it  may  be  my  fate  to  end 
my  days,"  conscious  of  a  certain  flightiness  in  her 
poor  head  oftentimes,  and  mindful  of  more  than 
one  severe  illness  of  that  nature  before.  A  legacy 
of  ;^ioo  which  my  father  will  have  at  Christmas, 
and  this  ^20  I  mentioned  before,  with  what  is  in 
the  house,  will  much  more  than  set  us  clear.  If 
my  father,  an  old  servant-maid,  and  I  can't  live,  and 
live  comfortably,  on  ^130  or  ;^i20  a  year,  we 
ought  to  burn  by  slow  fires  ;  and  I  almost  would, 
that  Mary  might  not  go  into  an  hospital. 

Let  me  not  leave  one  unfavorable  impression  on 
your  mind  respecting  my  brother.  Since  this  has 
happened,  he  has  been  very  kind  and  brotherly ; 
but  I  fear  for  his  mind.  He  has  taken  his  ease 
in  the  world,  and  is  not  fit  himself  to  struggle  with 
difficulties,  nor  has  much  accustomed  himself  to 
throw  himself  into  their  way;  and  I  know  his  lan- 
guage is  already,  "  Charles,  you  must  take  care  of 
yourself,  you  must  not  abridge  yourself  of  a  single 
pleasure  you  have  been  used  to,"  etc.,  and  in 
that  style  of  talking.  But  you,  a  necessarian,  can 
respect  a  difference  of  mind,  and  love  what  is  ami- 


62  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

able  in  a  character  not  perfect.  He  has  been  very 
good,  but  I  fear  for  his  mind.  Thank  God,  I 
can  unconnect  myself  with  him,  and  shall  manage 
all  my  father's  moneys  in  future  myself,  if  I  take 
charge  of  Daddy,  which  poor  John  has  not  even 
hinted  a  wish,  at  any  future  time  even,  to  share 
with  me.  The  lady  at  this  madhouse  assures  me 
that  I  may  dismiss  immediately  both  doctor  and 
apothecary,  retaining  occasionally  a  composing 
draught  or  so  for  a  while  ;  and  there  is  a  less  ex- 
pensive establishment  in  her  house,  where  she  will 
only  not  have  a  room  and  nurse  to  herself,  for  j[^^o 
or  guineas  a  year,  —  the  outside  would  be  ;^6o. 
You  know,  by  economy,  how  much  more  even  I 
shall  be  able  to  spare  for  her  comforts.  She  will,  I 
fancy,  if  she  stays,  make  one  of  the  family  rather 
than  of  the  patients  ;  and  the  old  and  young  ladies  I 
like  exceedingly,  and  she  loves  dearly;  and  they, 
as  the  saying  is,  take  to  her  very  extraordinarily, 
if  it  is  extraordinary  that  people  who  see  my  sister 
should  love  her. 

Of  all  the  people  I  ever  saw  in  the  world,  my 
poor  sister  was  most  and  thoroughly  devoid  of  the 
least  tincture  of  selfishness.  I  will  enlarge  upon  her 
qualities,  poor  dear,  dearest  soul,  in  a  future  let- 
ter, for  my  own  comfort,  for  I  understand  her 
thoroughly ;  and  if  I  mistake  not,  in  the  most  try- 
ing situation  that  a  human  being  can  be  found  in, 
she  will  be  found  (I  speak  not  with  sufficient  humil- 
ity, I  fear,  but  humanly  and  foolishly  speaking), — 
she  will  be  found,  I  trust,  uniformly  great  and  ami- 
able.    God  keep  her  in  her  present  mind,  to  whom 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  63 

be  thanks   and  praise  for  all  His  dispensations  to 
mankind  ! 

C.  Lamb. 

These  mentioned  good  fortunes  and  change  of 
prospects  had  almost  brought  my  mind  over  to  the 
extreme  the  very  opposite  to  despair.  I  was  in 
danger  of  making  myself  too  happy.  Your  letter 
brought  me  back  to  a  view  of  things  which  I  had 
entertained  from  the  beginning.  I  hope  (for  Mary 
I  can  answer)  —  but  I  hope  that  /  shall  through  life 
never  have  less  recollection,  nor  a  fainter  impres- 
sion, of  what  has  happened  than  I  have  now.  'T  is 
not  a  light  thing,  nor  meant  by  the  Almighty  to  be 
received  lightly.  I  must  be  serious,  circumspect, 
and  deeply  religious  through  life ;  and  by  such 
means  may  both  of  us  escape  madness  in  future,  if 
it  so  please  the  Almighty  ! 

Send  me  word  how  it  fares  with  Sara.  I  repeat 
it,  your  letter  was,  and  will  be,  an  inestimable  treas- 
ure to  me.  You  have  a  view  of  what  my  situation 
demands  of  me,  like  my  own  view,  and  I  trust  a  just 
one. 

Coleridge,  continue   to  write,  but  do  not  forever, 
offend  me  by   talking   of  sending   me    cash.     Sin- 
cerely and  on  my  soul,  we  do  not  want  it.     God 
love  you  both  ! 

I  will  write  again  very  soon.  Do  you  write 
directly. 


64  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

VII. 

TO  COLERIDGE. 

October  17,  1796. 
My  dearest  Friend,  — X-S£i6ve  from  my  very  soul 
to  observe  you  in  your  plans  of  life  veering  about 
from  this  hope  to  the  other,  and  settling  nowhere^ 
Is  it  an  untoward  fatality  (speaking  humanly)  that 
does  this  for  you,  —  a  stubborn,  irresistible  concur- 
rence of  events,  —  or  lies  the  fault,  as  I  fear  it  does, 
in  your  own  mind?  You  seem  to  be  taking  up 
splendid  schemes  of  fortune  only  to  lay  them  down 
again  ;  and  your  fortunes  are  an  ignis  fatiius  that  has 
been  conducting  you  in  thought  from  Lancaster 
Court,  Strand,  to  somewhere  near  Matlock;  then 
jumping  across  to  Dr.  Somebody's,  whose  son's  tutor 
you  were  likely  to  be  ;  and  would  to  God  the  dan- 
cing demon  may  conduct  you  at  last  in  peace  and 
comfort  to  the  "life  and  labours  of  a  cottager "  ! 
You  see  from  the  above  awkward  playfulness  of 
fancy  that  my  spirits  are  not  quite  depressed.  I 
should  ill  deserve  God's  blessings,  which,  since  the" 
late  terriHe  eveiif,'Tiave  come  down  in  mercy  upon 
us,  if  I  indulge  in  regret  or  querulousness."^Mary 
continues  serene  and  cheerful.  I  have  not  by  me  a 
little  letter  she  wrote  to  me  ;  for  though  I  see  her 
almost  every  day,  yet  we  delight  to  write  to  one  an- 
other, for  we  can  scarce  see  each  other  "but  in  com- 
pany with  some  of  the  people  of  the  house.  I  have 
not  the  letter  by  me,  but  will  quote  from  memory 
what  she  wrote  in  itTl"  I   have  no  bad,  terrifying 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  65 

dreams.  At  midnight,  when  I  happen  to  awake,  the 
nurse  sleeping  by  the  side  of  me,  with  the  noise  of 
the  poor  mad  people  around  me,  I  have  no  fear. 
The  spirit  of  my  mother  seems  to  descend  and  smile 
upon  me,  and  bid  me  live  to  enjoy  the  life  and  rea- 
son which  the  Almighty  has  given  me.  I  shall  see 
her  again  in  heaven  ;  she  will  then  understand  me 
better.  My  grandmother,  too,  will  understand  me 
better,  and  will  then  say  no  more,  as  she  used  to  do, 
'  Polly,  what  are  those  poor  crazy,  moythered  brains  of 
yours  thinking  of  always  ? ' "  Poor  Mary  !  my  mother 
indeed  never  understood  her  right.  She  loved  her,  as 
she  loved  us  all,  with  a  mother's  love  ;  but  in  opinion, 
in  feeling  and  sentiment  and  disposition,  bore  so  dis- 
tant a  resemblance  to  her  daughter  that  she  never 
understood  her  right,  —  never  could  believe  how 
much  she  loved  her,  but  met  her  caresses,  her  protes- 
tations of  filial  affection,  too  frequently  with  coldness 
and  repulse.  Still,  she  was  a  good  mother.  God 
forbid  I  should  think  of  her  but  most  respectfully, 
most  affectionately.  Yet  she  would  always  love  my 
brother  above  Mary,  who  was  not  worthy  of  one  tenth 
of  that  affection  which  Mary  had  a  right  to  claim. 
But  it  is  my  sister's  gratifying  recollection  that 
every  act  of  duty  and  of  love  she  could  pay,  every 
kindness  (and  I  speak  true,  when  I  say  to  the  hurt- 
ing of  her  health,  and  most  probably  in  great  part 
to  the  derangement  of  her  senses)  through  a  long 
course  of  infirmities  and  sickness  she  could  show 
her,  she  ever  did.  I  will  some  day,  as  I  promised, 
enlarge  to  you  upon  my  sister's  excellences ;  't  will 
seem  like  exaggeration,  but  I  will  do  it.  At  present, 
5 


66  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

short  letters  suit  my  state  of  mind  best.  So  take  my 
kindest  wishes  for  your  comfort  and  estabhshment 
in  life,  and  for  Sara's  welfare  and  comforts  with  you. 
God  love  you ;  God  love  us  all ! 

C.  Lamr. 

VIII. 

TO   COLERIDGE. 

N(n<einber  14,  1796. 

Coleridge,  I  love  you  for  dedicating  your  poetry 
to  Bowles.^  Genius  of  the  sacred  fountain  of  tears, 
it  was  he  who  led  you  gently  by  the  hand  through 
all  this  valley  of  weeping,  showed  you  the  dark  green 
yew-trees  and  the  willow  shades  where,  by  the  fall  of 
waters,  you  might  indulge  in  uncomplaining  melan- 
choly, a  delicious  regret  for  the  past,  or  weave  fine 
visions  of  that  awful  future,  — 

"  When  all  the  vanities  of  life's  brief  day 
Oblivion's  hurrying  hand  hath  swept  away, 
And  all  its  sorrows,  at  the  awful  blast 
Of  the  archangel's  trump,  are  but  as  shadows  past." 

I  have  another  sort  of  dedication  in  my  head  for 
my  few  things,  which  I  want  to  know  if  you  approve 
of  and  can  insert.^  I  mean  to  inscribe  them  to  my 
sister.  It  will  be  unexpected,  and  it  will  give  her 
pleasure  ;    or  do  you   think  it  will  look  whimsical 

1  The  earliest  sonnets  of  William  Lisle  Bowles  were  pub- 
lished in  1789,  the  year  of  Lamb's  removal  from  Christ's 
Hospital. 

2  Alluding  to  the  prospective  joint  volume  of  poems  (by 
Coleridge,  Lamb,  and  Charles  Lloyd)  to  be  published  by  Cottle 
in  1797.  This  was  Lamb's  second  serious  literary  venture,  he 
and  Coleridge  having  issued  a  joint  volume  in  1796. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  67 

at  all?  As  I  have  not  spoke  to  her  about  it,  I  can 
easily  reject  the  idea.  But  there  is  a  monotony  in 
the  aiTections  which  people  living  together,  or  as  we 
do  now,  very  frequently  seeing  each  other,  are  apt  to 
give  in  to,  —  a  sort  of  indifference  in  the  expression 
of  kindness  for  each  other,  which  demands  that  we 
should  sometimes  call  to  our  aid  the  trickery  of  sur- 
prise. Do  you  publish  with  Lloyd,  or  without  him  ? 
In  either  case  my  little  portion  may  come  last,  and 
after  the  fashion  of  orders  to  a  country  correspon- 
dent, I  will  give  directions  how  I  should  like  to  have 
'em  done.     The  title-page  to  stand  thus  :  — 

POEMS 

BY 
CHARLES    LAMB,    OF    THE    INDL-V    HOUSE. 

Under  this  tide  the  following  motto,  which,  for 
want  of  room,  I  put  over- leaf,  and  desire  you  to 
insert  whether  you  like  it  or  no.  May  not  a  gen- 
tleman choose  what  arms,  mottoes,  or  armorial 
bearings  the  herald  will  give  him  leave,  without 
consulting  his  republican  friend,  who  might  advise 
none?  May  not  a  publican  put  up  the  sign  of  the 
Saracen's  Head,  even  though  his  undiscerning 
neighbor  should  prefer,  as  more  genteel,  the  Cat 

and  Gridiron? 

[Motto.] 
"This  laeauty,  in  the  blossom  of  my  youth, 
When  my  first  fire  knew  no  adulterate  incense, 
Nor  I  no  way  to  flatter  but  my  fondness, 
In  the  best  language  my  true  tongue  could  tell  me, 
And  all  the  broken  sighs  my  sick  heart  lend  me, 
I  sued  and  served.     Long  did  I  love  this  lady."^ 

Massinger.     - 
■>  From  "  A  Very  Woman." 


68  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

THE   DEDICATION. 

THE   FEW   FOLLOWING    POEMS, 
CREATURES   OF   THE   FAN'CY   AND   THE   FEELING 

IN  life's  more  vacant  hours, 

PRODUCED,    FOR   THE    MOST   PART,    BY 

LOVE    IN    IDLENESS, 

ARE, 

WITH   ALL  A   brother's   FONDNESS, 

INSCRIBED  TO 

MARY   ANN   LAMB, 

THE   author's    best   FRIEND   AND    SISTER. 

This  is  the  pomp  and  paraphernaHa  of  parting, 
with  which  I  take  my  leave  of  a  passion  which  has 
reigned  so  royally  (so  long)  within  me  ;  thus,  with 
its  trappings  of  laureateship,  I  fling  it  off,  pleased 
and  satisfied  with  myself  that  the  weakness  troubles 
me  no  longer.  |  I  am  wedded,  Coleridge,  to  the 
fortunes  of  my  sister  and  ray  poor  old  father.  Oh, 
my  friend,  I  think  sometimes,  could  I  recall  the 
days  that  are  past,  which  among  them  should  I 
choose?  Not  those  "  merrier  days,"  not  the  "  plea- 
sant days  of  hope,"  not  "  those  wanderings  with  a 
fair-hair'd  maid,"  '  which  I  have  so  often  and  so 
feelingly  regretted,  but  the  days,  Coleridge,  of  a 
mother's  fondness  for  her  schoolboy.  What  would 
I  give  to  call  her  back  to  earth  for  one  day,  on 
my  knees  to  ask  her  pardon  for  all  those  little 
asperities  of  temper  which  from  time  to  time  have 

1  An  allusion  to  Lamb's  first  love,  —  the  "  Anna"  of  his 
sonnets,  and  the  original,  probably,  of   "  Rosamund  Gray  " 

and   of  "  Alice  W n  "  in   the  beautiful  essay  "  Dream 

Children." 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  69 

given  her  gentle  spirit  pain.  And  the  day,  my 
friend,  I  trust  will  come ;  there  will  be  "  time 
enough "  for  kind  offices  of  love,  if  "  Heaven's 
eternal  year  "  be  ours.  Hereafter,  her  meek  spirit 
shall  jipt  reproach  me.  Oh,  my  friend,  cultivate 
the  fitiaV  feelings,  and  let  no  man  think  himself 
released  from  the  kind  "  charities  "  of  relationship. 
These  shall  give  him  peace  at  the  last ;  these  are 
the  best  foundation  for  every  species  of  benevo- 
lence. ^  I  rejoice  to  hear,  by  certain  channels,  that 
you,  my  friend,  are  reconciled  with  all  your  rela- 
tions. 'T  is  the  most  kindly  and  natural  species 
of  love,  and  we  have  all  the  associated  train  of  early 
feelings  to  secure  its  strength  and  perpetuity.  Send 
me  an  account  of  your  health  ;  mdeed  I  am  solicit- 
ous about  you.     God  love  you  and  yours  ! 

C.  Lamb. 

IX. 

TO   COLERIDGE. 

[Fragment.] 

Dec.  5,  1796. 

At  length  I  have  done  with  verse-making,  —  not 
that  I  relish  other  people's  poetry  less  :  theirs  comes 
from  'em  without  effort ;  mine  is  the  difficult  opera- 
tion of  a  brain  scanty  of  ideas,  made  more  difficult 
by  disuse.  I  have  been  reading  "  The  Task  "  with 
fresh  delight.  I  am  glad  you  love  Cowper.  I 
could  forgive  a  man  for  not  enjoying  Milton ;  but 
I  would  not  call  that  man  my  friend  who  should  be 
offended  with  the  "  divine  chit-chat  of  Cowper." 
Write  to  me.     God  love  you  and  yours  ! 

C.  L. 


70  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

X. 

TO  COLERIDGE. 

Dec.  lo,  1796. 

I  HAD  put  my  letter  into  the  post  rather  hastily, 
not  expecting  to  have  to  acknowledge  another  from 
you  so  soon.  This  morning's  present  has  made  me 
alive  again.  My  last  night's  epistle  was  childishly 
querulous ;  but  you  have  put  a  little  life  into  me, 
and  I  will  thank  you  for  your  remembrance  of  me, 
while  my  sense  of  it  is  yet  warm ;  for  if  I  linger  a 
day  or  two,  I  may  use  the  same  phrase  of  acknowl- 
edgment, or  similar,  but  the  feeling  that  dictates  it 
now  will  be  gone  \  I  shall  send  you  a  caput  mor- 
tiiurn,  not  a  cor  vivens.  Thy  "  Watchman's,"  thy 
bellman's  verses,  I  do  retort  upon  thee,  thou  libel- 
lous varlet,  —  why,  you  cried  the  hours  yourself, 
and  who  made  you  so  proud?  But  I  submit,  to 
show  my  humility,  most  implicitly  to  your  dogmas. 
I  reject  entirely  the  copy  of  verses  you  reject. 
With  regard  to  my  leaving  off  versifying,^  you  have 
said  so  many  pretty  things,  so  many  fine  compli- 
ments, ingeniously  decked  out  in  the  garb  of  sin- 
cerity, and  undoubtedly  springing  from  a  present 
feeling  somewhat  like  sincerity,  that  you  might  melt 
the  most  un-muse-ical  soul,  did  you  not  (now  for  a 
Rowland  compliment  for  your  profusion  of  Olivers), 
—  did  you  not  in  your  very  epistle,  by  the  many 
pretty   fancies  and  profusion  of  heart  displayed  in 

1  See  preceding  letter. 


LETTERS  OF    CHARLES  LAMB.  71 

it,  dissuade  and  discourage  me  from  attempting 
anything  after  you.  At  present  I  have  not  leisure 
to  make  verses,  nor  anything  approaching  to  a 
fondness  for  the  exercise.  In  the  ignorant  present 
time,  who  can  answer  for  the  future  man  ?  "  At 
lovers'  perjuries  Jove  laughs," — and  poets  have 
sometimes  a  disingenuous  way  of  forswearing  their 
occupation.  This,  though,  is  not  my  case.  The 
tender  cast  of  soul,  sombred  with  melancholy  and 
subsiding  recollections,  is  favorable  to  the  Sonnet 
or  the  Elegy  ;    but  from  — 

"  The  sainted  growing  woof 
The  teasing  troubles  keep  aloof." 

The  music  of  poesy  may  charm  for  a  while  the  im- 
portunate, teasing  cares  of  life ;  but  the  teased  and 
troubled  man  is  not  in  a  disposition  to  make  that 
music. 

You  sent  me  some  very  sweet  lines  relative  to 
Burns ;  but  it  was  at  a  time  when,  in  my  highly  agi- 
tated and  perhaps  distorted  state  of  mind,  I  thought 
it  a  duty  to  read  'em  hastily  and  burn  'em.  I 
burned  all  my  own  verses,  all  my  book  of  extracts 
from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  and  a  thousand 
sources ;  I  burned  a  little  journal  of  my  foolish  pas- 
sion which  I  had  a  long  time  kept,  — 

"  Noting,  ere  they  past  away, 
The  little  lines  of  yesterday." 

I  almost  burned  all  your  letters ;  I  did  as  bad,  —  I 
lent  'em  to  a  friend  to  keep  out  of  my  brother's 
sight,  should  he  come  and  make  inquisition  into  our 
papers  ;  for  much  as  he  dwelt  upon  your  conversation 


72  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

while  you  were  among  us,  and  delighted  to  be  with 
you,  it  has  been  his  fashion  ever  since  to  depreciate 
and  cry  you  down,  —  you  were  the  cause  of  my 
madness,  you  and  your  damned  foolish  sensibility 
and  melancholy ;  and  he  lamented  with  a  true 
brotherly  feeling  that  we  ever  met, —  even  as  the  sober 
citizen,  when  his  son  went  astray  upon  the  moun- 
tains of  Parnassus,  is  said  to  have  cursed  wit,  and 
poetry,  and  Pope.-^  I  quote  wrong,  but  no  matter. 
These  letters  I  lent  to  a  friend  to  be  out  of  the  way 
for  a  season ;  but  I  have  claimed  them  in  vain,  and 
shall  not  cease  to  regret  their  loss.  Your  packets 
posterior  to  the  date  of  my  misfortunes,  commencing 
with  that  valuable  consolatory  epistle,  are  every  day 
accumulating,  —  they  are  sacred  things  with  me. 

Publish  your  Burns  ^  when  and  how  you  like  ;  it 
will  be  new  to  me,  —  my  memory  of  it  is  very  con- 
fused, and  tainted  with  unpleasant  associations. 
Burns  was  the  god  of  my  idolatry,  as  Bowles  of 
yours.  I  am  jealous  of  your  fraternizing  with  Bowles, 
when  I  think  you  relish  him  more  than  Burns  or  my 
old  favorite,  Cowper.  But  you  conciliate  matters 
when  you  talk  of  the  "  divine  chit-chat  "  of  the 
latter ;  by  the  expression  I  see  you  thoroughly  relish 
him.  I  love  Mrs.  Coleridge  for  her  excuses  an 
hundred-fold  more  dearly  than  if  she  heaped  "  line 
upon  line,"  out-Hannah-ing  Hannah  More,  and  had 

^  Epistle  to  Arbutlinot :  — 

"  Poor  Cornus  sees  his  frantic  wife  elope, 
And  curses  wit,  and  poetry,  and  Pope." 

2  The  lines  on  him  which    Coleridge  had  sent  to  Lamb, 
and  which  the  latter  had  burned. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  73 

rather  hear  you  sing  "  Did  a  very  httle  baby  "  by 
your  family  iireside,  than  Usten  to  you  when  you 
were  repeating  one  of  Bowles's  sweetest  sonnets  in 
your  sweet  manner,  while  we  two  were  indulging 
sympathy,  a  solitary  luxury,  by  the  fireside  at  the 
"  Salutation."  Yet  have  I  no  higher  ideas  of  heaven. 
Your  company  was  one  "  cordial  in  this  melancholy 
vale,"-— the  remembrance  of  it  is  a  blessing  partly, 
and  partly  a  curse.  When  I  can  abstract  myself 
from  things  present,  I  can  enjoy  it  with  a  fresh- 
ness of  relish  ;  but  it  more  constantly  operates  to 
an  unfavorable  comparison  with  the  uninterest- 
ing converse  I  always  and  only  can  partake  in.  Not 
a  soul  loves  Bowles  here ;  scarce  one  has  heard  of 
Burns ;  few  but  laugh  at  me  for  reading  my  Testa- 
ment, —  they  talk  a  language  I  understand  not ;  I 
conceal  sentiments  that  would  be  a  puzzle  to  them. 
I  can  only  converse  with  you  by  letter,  and  with  the 
dead  in  their  books.  My  sister,  Ind'eed,  is  all  I  can 
wish  in  a  companion ;  but  our  spirits  are  alike 
poorly,  our  reading  and  knowledge  from  the  self- 
same sources,  our  communication  with  the  scenes  of 
the  world  alike  narrow.  Never  having  kept  separate 
company,  or  any  "  company  "  together;  never  hav- 
ing read  separate  books,  and  few  books  together,  — 
what  knowledge  have  we  to  convey  to  each  other? 
In  our  little  range  of  duties  and  connections,  how  few 
sentiments  can  take  place  without  friends,  with  few 
books,  with  a  taste  for  religion  rather  than  a  strong 
religious  habit !  We  need  some  support,  some 
leading-strings  to  cheer  and  direct  us.  You  talk 
very   wisely ;    and    be   not   sparing  of  your  advice. 


74  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Continue  to  remember  us,  and  to  show  us  you  do 
remember  us ;  we  will  take  as  lively  an  interest  in 
what  concerns  you  and  yours.  All  I  can  add  to 
your  happiness  will  be  sympathy.  You  can  add  to 
mine  more:  you  can  teach  me  wisdom.  I  am  in- 
deed an  unreasonable  correspondent ;  but  I  was 
unwilling  to  let  my  last  night's  letter  go  off  without 
this  quahfier :  you  will  perceive  by  this  my  mind  is 
easier,  and  you  will  rejoice.  I  do  not  expect  or 
wish  you  to  write  till  you  are  moved  ;  and  of  course 
shall  not,  till  you  announce  to  me  that  event,  think 
of  writing  myself.  Love  to  Mrs.  Coleridge  and 
David  Hartley,  and  my  kind  remembrance  to 
Lloyd,  if  he  is  with  you. 

C.  Lamb. 

XI. 

TO  COLERIDGE. 

yanuary  5,  1797. 

Sunday  Morning. —  You  cannot  surely  mean  to 
degrade  the  Joan  of  Arc  into  a  pot-girl.^  You  are 
not  going,  I  hope,  to  annex  to  that  most  splendid 
ornament  of  Southey's  poem  all  this  cock-and-a-buU 

1  Coleridge,  in  later  years,  indorsed  Lamb's  opinion  of  this 
portion  of  his  contribution  to  "Joan  of  Arc."  "  I  was  really 
astonished,"  he  said,  "(i)  at  the  schoolboy,  wretched,  alle- 
goric machinery;  (2)  at  the  transmogrification  of  the  fanatic 
virago  into  a  modern  novel-pawing  proselyte  of  the  "  Age  of 
Reason,"  —  a  Tom  Paine  in  petticoats;  (3)  at  the  utter  want 
of  all  rhythm  in  the  verse,  the  monotony  and  dead  plumb-down 
of  the  pauses,  and  the  absence  of  all  bone,  muscle,  and  sinew 
in  the  single  lines." 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  L.AMB.  75 

Story  of  Joan,  the  publican's  daughter  of  Neufchatel, 
with  the  lamentable  episode  of  a  wagoner,  his  wife, 
and  six  children.  The  texture  will  be  most  lamenta- 
bly disproportionate.  The  first  forty  or  fifty  lines  of 
these  addenda  are  no  doubt  in  their  way  admirable 
too  ;  but  many  would  prefer  the  Joan  of  Southey. 

"  On  mightiest  deeds  to  brood 
Of  shadowy  vastness,  such  as  made  my  heart 
Throb  fast;  anon  I  paused,  and  in  a  state 
Of  half  expectance  listened  to  the  wind." 

"  They  wondered  at  me,  who  had  known  me  once 
A  cheerful,  careless  damsel." 

"  The  eye, 
That  of  the  circling  throng  and  of  the  visible  world, 
Unseeing,  saw  the  shapes  of  holy  phantasy." 

I  see  nothing  in  your  description  of  the  Maid  equal 
to  these.  There  is  a  fine  originality  certainly  in  those 
lines,  — 

"  For  she  had  lived  in  this  bad  world 
As  in  a  place  of  tombs, 
And  touched  not  the  pollutions  of  the  dead  ;  " 

but  your  "  fierce  vivacity  "  is  a  faint  copy  of  the 
"  fierce  and  terrible  benevolence  "  of  Southey ; 
added  to  this,  that  it  will  look  like  rivalship  in  you, 
and  extort  a  comparison  with  Southey,  —  I  think 
to  your  disadvantage.  And  the  lines,  considered  in 
themselves  as  an  addition  to  what  you  had  before 
written  (strains  of  a  far  higher  mood),  are  but  such 
as  Madame  Fancy  loves  in  some  of  her  more  fa- 
miliar moods,  —  at  such  times  as  she  has  met  Noll 
Goldsmith,  and  walked  and  talked  with  him,  calling 
him  "  old  acquaintance."     Southey  certainly  has  no 


76.  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

pretensions  to  vie  with  you  in  the  sublime  of  poetry  ; 
but  he  tells  a  plain  tale  better  than  you.  I  will  enu- 
merate some  woful  blemishes,  some  of  'em  sad  de- 
viations from  that  simplicity  which  was  your  aim. 
"Hailed  who  might  be  near"  (the  "canvas-coverture 
moving,"  by  the  by,  is  laughable)  ;  "  a  woman  and 
six  children"  (by  the  way,  why  not  nine  children? 
It  would  have  been  just  half  as  pathetic  again)  ; 
"  statues  of  sleep  they  seemed  ;  "  "  frost-mangled 
wretch;"  "green  putridity;"  "hailed  him  im- 
mortal" (rather  ludicrous  again);  "voiced  a  sad 
and  simple  tale  "  (abominable  !  )  ;  "  unproven- 
dered  ;  "  "  such  his  tale  ;  "  "  Ah,  suffering  to  the 
height  of  what  was  sufffered  "  (a  most  insiiffcrable 
iine)  ;  "  amazements  of  affright ;  "  "  The  hot,  sore 
brain  attributes  its  own  hues  of  ghastliness  and 
torture"  (what  shocking  confusion  of  ideas  !). 

In  these  delineations  of  common  and  natural 
feelings,  in  the  familiar  walks  of  poetry,  you  seem 
to  resemble  Montauban  dancing  with  Roubign^'s 
tenants,'  "  7fmch  of  his  native  loftiness  remained 
in  the  execution.''' 

I  was  reading  your  "  Religious  Musings  "  the  other 
day,  and  sincerely  I  think  it  the  noblest  poem  in  the 
language  next  after  the  "  Paradise  Lost ;  "  and  even 
that  was  not  made  the  vehicle  of  such  grand  truths. 
"There  is  one  mind,"  etc.,  down  to  "Almighty's 
throne,"  are  without  a  rival  in  the  whole  compass  of 
my  poetical  reading. 

"  Stands  in  the  sun,  and  with  no  partial  gaze 
Views  all  creation." 

1  In  Mackenzie's  tale,  "  Julia  de  Roubigne." 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  77 

I  wish  I  could  have  written  those  Hnes.  I  rejoice 
that  I  am  able  to  relish  them.  The  loftier  walks  of 
Pindus  are  your  proper  region.  There  you  have 
no  compeer  in  modern  times.  Leave  the  lowlands, 
unenvied,  in  possession  of  such  men  as  Cowper 
and  Southey.  Thus  am  I  pouring  balsam  into  the 
wounds  I  may  have  been  inflicting  on  my  poor 
friend's  vanity. 

In  your  notice  of  Southey's  new  volume  you 
omit  to  mention  the  most  pleasing  of  all,  the 
"Miniature." 

"  There  were 
Who  formed  high  hopes  and  flattering  ones  of  thee, 
Young  Robert !  " 

"  Spirit  of  Spenser  !    was  the  wanderer  wrong  ?  " 

Fairfax  I  have  been  in  quest  of  a  long  time. 
Johnson,  in  his  "  Life  of  Waller,"  gives  a  most  de- 
licious specimen  of  him,  and  adds,  in  the  true  man- 
ner of  that  delicate  critic,  as  well  as  amiable  man, 
"  It  may  be  presumed  that  this  old  version  will  not 
be  much  read  after  the  elegant  translation  of  my 
friend  Mr.  Hoole."  I  endeavored — I  wished  to 
gain  some  idea  of  Tasso  from  this  Mr.  Hoole,  the 
great  boast  and  ornament  of  the  India  House,  but 
soon  desisted.  I  found  him  more  vapid  than  small- 
est small  beer  "  sun-vinegared."  Your  "  Dream," 
down  to  that  exquisite  line,  — 

"  I  can't  tell  half  his  adventures," 

is  a  most  happy  resemblance  of  Chaucer.  The  re- 
mainder is  so-so.  The  best  line,  I  think,  is,  "  He 
belong'd,  I  believe,  to  the  witch  Melancholy."     By 


78  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

the  way,  when  will  our  volume  come  out  ?  Don't 
delay  it  till  you  have  written  a  new  "  Joan  of  Arc." 
Send  what  letters  you  please  by  me,  and  in  any  way 
you  choose,  single  or  double.  The  India  Company 
is  better  adapted  to  answer  the  cost  than  the  gener- 
ality of  my  friend's  correspondents,  —  such  poor  and 
honest  dogs  as  John  Thehvall  particularly.  I  can- 
not say  I  know  Coulson,  —  at  least  intimately  ;  I  once 
supped  with  him  and  Austin  ;  I  think  his  manners 
very  pleasing.  I  will  not  tell  you  what  I  think  of 
Lloyd,  for  he  may  by  chance  come  to  see  this  letter  ; 
and  that  thought  puts  a  restraint  on  me.  I  cannot 
think  what  subject  would  suit  your  epic  genius, — 
some  philosophical  subject,  I  conjecture,  in  which 
shall  be  blended  the  sublime  of  poetry  and  of 
science.  Your  proposed  "  Hymns "  will  be  a  fit 
preparatory  study  wherewith  "  to  discipline  your 
young  novitiate  soul."  I  grow  dull ;  I  '11  go  walk 
myself  out  of  my  dulness. 

Sunday  Night.  —  You  and  Sara  are  very  good 
to  think  so  kindly  and  so  favorably  of  poor  Mary ; 
I  would  to  God  all  did  so  too.  But  I  very  much 
fear  she  must  not  think  of  coming  home  in  my 
father's  lifetime.  It  is  very  hard  upon  her,  but 
our  circumstances  are  peculiar,  and  we  must  submit 
to  them.  God  be  praised  she  is  so  well  as  she  is. 
She  bears  her  situation  as  one  who  has  no  right  to 
complain.  My  poor  old  aunt,  whom  you  have  seen, 
the  kindest,  goodest  creature  to  me  when  I  was  at 
school ;  who  used  to  toddle  there  to  bring  me  good 
things,  when  I,  schoolboy- like,  only  despised  her  for 
it,  and  used  to  be  ashamed  to  see  her  come  and  sit 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  79 

herself  down  on  the  old  coal-hole  steps  as  you  went 
into  the  old  grammar-school,  and  open  her  apron, 
and  bring  out  her  basin,  with  some  nice  thing  she 
had  caused  to  be  saved  for  me,  1  —  the  good  old 
creature  is  now  lying  on  her  death-bed.  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  on  her  deplorable  state.  To  the 
shock  she  received  on  that  our  evil  day,  from  which 
she  never  completely  recovered,  I  impute  her  ill- 
ness. She  says,  poor  thing,  she  is  glad  she  is  come 
home  to  die  with  me.     I  was  always  her  favourite  ; 

"  No  after  friendship  e'er  can  raise 
The  endearments  of  our  early  days  ; 
Nor  e'er  the  heart  such  fondness  prove, 
As  when  it  first  began  to  love." 


XII. 

TO   COLERIDGE. 
J  January  10,  1797. 

I  NEED  not  repeat  my  wishes  to  have  my  little 
sonnets  printed  verbatim  my  last  way.  In  particu- 
lar, I  fear  lest  you  should  prefer  printing  my  first 
sonnet,  as  you  have  done  more  than  once,  "  did  the 
wand  of  Merlin  wave,"  it  looks  so  like  Mr.  Merlin,'- 
the  ingenious  successor  of  the  immortal  Merlin,  now 
living  in  good  health  and  spirits,  and  flourishing  in 
magical  reputation,  in  Oxford  Street ;  and,  on  my 
life,  one  half  who  read  it  would  understand  it  so. 

1  See  the  essay,  "  Christ's  Hospital  Five-and-Thirty  Years 
Ago." 

2  A  v;ell-known  conjuror  of  the  time. 


8o  BETTERS   Of  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Do  put  'em  forth  finally,  as  I  have,  in  various  letters, 
settled  it ;  for  first  a  man's  self  is  to  be  pleased,  and 
then  his  friends,  —  and  of  course  the  greater  num- 
ber of  his  friends,  if  they  differ  inter  se.  Thus  taste 
may  safely  be  put  to  the  vote.  I  do  long  to  see 
our  names  together,  —  not  for  vanity's  sake,  and 
naughty  pride  of  heart  altogether ;  for  not  a  living 
soul  I  know,  or  am  intimate  with,  will  scarce  read 
the  book,  — so  I  shall  gain  nothing,  quoad  famam  ; 
and  yet  there  is  a  little  vanity  mixes  in  it,  I  cannot 
help  denying.  —  I  am  aware  of  the  unpoetical  cast 
of  the  last  six  lines  of  my  last  sonnet,  and  think  my- 
self unwarranted  in  smuggling  so  tame  a  thing  into 
the  book  ;  only  the  sentiments  of  those  six  lines  are 
thoroughly  congenial  to  me  in  my  state  of  mind, 
and  I  wish  to  accumulate  perpetuating  tokens  of  my 
affection  to  poor  Mary.  That  it  has  no  originality 
in  its  cast,  nor  anything  in  the  feelings  but  what 
is  common  and  natural  to  thousands,  nor  ought 
properly  to  be  called  poetry,  I  see  ;  still,  it  will  tend 
to  keep  present  to  my  mind  a  view  of  things  which 
I  ought  to  indulge.  These  six  lines,  too,  have  not, 
to  a  reader,  a  connectedness  with  the  foregoing. 
Omit  it  if  you  like.  —  What  a  treasure  it  is  to  my 
poor,  indolent,  and  unemployed  mind  thus  to  lay 
hold  on  a  subject  to  talk  about,  though  'tis  but 
a  sonnet,  and  that  of  the  lowest  order !  How 
mournfully  inactive  I  am  !  —  'T  is  night ;  good 
night. 

My  sister,  I  thank  God,  is  nigh  recovered  ;  she 
was  seriously  ill.  Do,  in  your  next  letter,  and  that 
right    soon,    give    me  some  satisfaction    respecting 


LETTERS  OE  CHARLES  LAMB.  8i 

your  present  situation  at  Stowey.  Is  it  a  farm  that 
you  have  got?  and  what  does  your  worship  Icnow 
about  farming? 

Coleridge,  I  want  jou  to  write  an  epic  poem. ) 
Nothin^_short_ofit  can.  satisfy  the  vast  capacity  off 
true  poetic  genius.  Having  one  great  end  to  direct  j 
all  your  poetical  faculties  to,  and  on  which  to  lay  out 
your  hopes,  your  ambition  will  show  you  to  what  you 
are  equal.  By  the  sacred  energies  of  Milton  !  by 
the  dainty,  sweet,  and  soothing  phantasies  of  honey- 
tongued  Spenser !  I  adjure  you  to  attempt  the 
epic,  or  do  something  more  ample  than  the  writ- 
ing an  occasional  brief  ode  or  sonnet ;  something 
"  to  make  yourself  forever  known,  —  to  make  the 
age  to  come  your  own."  But  I  prate  ;  doubtless  you 
meditate  something.  When  you  are  exalted  among 
the  lords  of  epic  fame,  I  shall  recall  with  pleasure 
and  exultingly  the  days  of  your  humility,  when  you 
disdained  not  to  put  forth,  in  the  same  volume  with 
mine,  your  "  Religious  Musings "  and  that  other 
poem  from  the  "  Joan  of  Arc,"  those  promising  first- 
fruits  of  high  renown  to  come.  You  have  learning, 
you  have  fancy,  you  have  enthusiasm,  you  have 
strength  and  amplitude  of  wing  enow  for  flights  like 
those  I  recommend.  In  the  vast  and  unexplored 
regions  of  fairy-land  there  is  ground  enough  unfound 
and  uncultivated :  search  there,  and  realize  your 
favorite  Susquehanna  scheme.  In  all  our  com- 
parisons of  taste,  I  do  not  know  whether  I  have 
ever  heard  your  opinion  of  a  poet  very  dear  to  me, 
—  the  now-out- of- fashion  Cowley.  Favor  me  with 
your  judgment  of  him,  and  tell  me  if  his  prose 
6 


82  LETTERS   OF   CHARLES  LAMB. 

essays,  in  particular,  as  well  as  no  inconsiderable 
part  of  his  verse,  be  not  delicious.  I  prefer  the 
^graceful  rambling  of  his  essays  even  to  the  courtly 
I  elegance  and  ease  of  Addison,  abstracting  from  this 
/  the  latter's  exquisite  humor. 

When  the  little  volume  is  printed,  send  me  three 
or  four,  at  all  events  not  more  than  six,  copies,  and 
tell  me  if  1  put  you  to  any  additional  expense  by 
printing  with  you.  I  have  no  thought  of  the  kind, 
and  in  that  case  must  reimburse  you. 

Priestley,  whom  I  sin  in  -Almost  adoring,  speaks 
of  "  such  a  choice  of  company  as  tends  to  keep  up 
that  right  bent  and  firmness  of  mind  which  a  neces- 
sary intercourse  with  the  world  would  otherwise 
warp  and  relax.  .  .  .  Such  fellowship  is  the  true 
balsam  of  life  ;  its  cement  is  infinitely  more  durable 
than  that  of  the  friendships  of  the  world,  and  it 
looks  for  its  proper  fruit  and  complete  gratification 
to  the  life  beyond  the  grave."  Is  there  a  possible 
chance  for  such  an  one  as  I  to  realize  in  this  world 
such  friendships?  Where  am  I  to  look  for  'em? 
What  testimonials  shall  I  bring  of  my  being  worthy 
of  such  friendship  ?  Alas  !  the  great  and  good  go 
together  in  separate  herds,  and  leave  such  as  I 
to  lag  far,  far  behind  in  all  intellectual  and,  far 
more  grievous  to  say,  in  all  moral  accomplishments. 
Coleridge,  I  have  not  one  truly  elevated  character 
among  my  acquaintance,  —  not  one  Christian  ;  not 
one  but  undervalues  Christianity.  Singly  what  am 
I  to  do?  Wesley  (have  you  read  his  life?),  was  he 
not  an  elevated  character?  Wesley  has  said,  "Re- 
ligion is  not  a  solitary  thing."     Alas  !  it  necessarily 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  ^Z 

is  so  with  me,  or  next  to  solitary.  'T  is  true  you 
write  to  me.  But  correspondence  by  letter  and 
personal  intimacy  are  very  widely  different.  Do, 
do  write  to  me,  and  do  some  good  to  my  mind,  al- 
ready how  much  "  warped  and  relaxed "  by  the 
world  !  'T  is  the  conclusion  of  another  evening. 
Good  night ;  God  have  us  all  in  His  keeping  ! 

If  you  are  sufficiently  at  leisure,  oblige  me  with 
an  account  of  your  plan  of  life  at  Stowey ;  your 
literary  occupations  and  prospects,  —  in  short,  make 
me  acquainted  with  every  circumstance  which,  as 
relating  to  you,  can  be  interesting  to  me.  Are  you 
yet  a  Berkleyan?  Make  me  one.  I  rejoice  in 
being,  speculatively,  a  necessarian.  Would  to  God 
I  were  habitually  a  practical  one  !  Confirm  me  in 
the  faith  of  that  great  and  glorious  doctrine,  and 
keep  me  steady  in  the  contemplation  of  it.  You 
some  time  since  expressed  an  intention  you  had  of 
finishing  some  extensive  work  on  the  Evidences  of 
Natural  and  Revealed  Religion.  Have  you  let  that 
intention  go  ?  Or  are  you  doing  anything  towards 
it?  Make  to  yourself  other  te^n  talents.  My  letter 
is  full  of  nothingness.  I  talk  of  nothing.  But  I 
must  talk.  I  love  to  write  to  you.  I  take  a  pride 
in  it.  It  makes  me  think  less  meanly  of  myself.  It 
makes  me  think  myself  not  totally  disconnected 
from  the  better  part  of  mankind.  I  know  I  am  too 
dissatisfied  with  the  beings  around  me  ;  but  I  can- 
not help  occasionally  exclaiming,  "  Woe  is  me,  that 
I  am  constrained  to  dwell  with  Meshech,  and  to 
have  my  habitation  among  the  tents  of  Kedar."  I 
know  I  am  noways  better  in  practice  than  my  neigh- 


84  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

bors,  but  I  have  a  taste  for  religion,  an  occasional 
earnest  aspiration  after  perfection,  which  they  have 
not.  I  gain  nothing  by  being  with  such  as  myself, 
—  we  encourage  one  another  in  mediocrity.  I  am 
always  longing  to  be  with  men  more  excellent  than 
myself.  All  this  must  sound  odd  to  you ;  but  these 
are  my  predominant  feelings  when  I  sit  down  to 
write  to  you,  and  I  should  put  force  upon  my  mind, 
were  I  to  reject  them.  Yet  1  rejoice,  and  feel  my 
privilege  with  gratitude,  when  I  have  been  reading 
some  wise  book,  such  as  I  have  just  been  reading,  — 
Priestley  on  Philosophical  Necessity,  —  in  the  thought 
that  I  enjoy  a  kind  of  communion,  a  kind  of  friend- 
ship even,  with  the  great  and  good.  Books  are  to 
me  instead  of  friends.  I  wish  they  did  not  resemble 
the  latter  in  their  scarceness. 

And  how  does  little  David  Hartley?  "  Ecquid  in 
antiquam  virtutem?"  Does  his  mighty  name  work 
wonders  yet  upon  his  little  frame  and  opening  mind  ? 
I  did  not  distinctly  understand  you,  —  you  don't 
mean  to  make  an  actual  ploughman  of  him?  Is 
Lloyd  with  you  yet  ?  Are  you  intimate  with  Southey  ? 
What  poems  is  he  about  to  publish?  He  hath  a 
most  prolific  brain,  and  is  indeed  a  most  sweet  poet. 
But  how  can  you  answer  all  the  various  mass  of 
interrogation  I  have  put  to  you  in  the  course  of 
the  sheet?  Write  back  just  what  you  like,  only 
write  something,  however  brief.  I  have  now  nigh 
finished  my  page,  and  got  to  the  end  of  another 
evening  (Monday  evening),  and  my  eyes  are  heavy 
and  sleepy,  and  my  brain  unsuggestive.  I  have 
just   heart    enough  awake  to  say  good  night  once 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  85 

more,  and  God  love  you,  my  dear  friend ;  God  love 
us  all  !     Mary  bears  an  affectionate  remembrance  of 

you. 

Charles  Lamb. 


XIII. 

TO  COLERIDGE. 

February  13,  1797. 

Your  poem  is  altogether  admirable  —  parts  of  it 
are  even  exquisite  ;  in  particular  your  personal  ac- 
count of  the  Maid  far  surpasses  anything  of  the 
sort  in  Southey.^  I  perceived  all  its  excellences, 
on  a  first  reading,  as  readily  as  now  you  have  been 
removing  a  supposed  film  from  my  eyes.  I  was 
only  struck  with  a  certain  faulty  disproportion  in 
the  matter  and  the  style,  which  I  still  think  I  per- 
ceive, between  these  lines  and  the  former  ones.  I 
had  an  end  in  view,  —  I  wished  to  make  you  reject 
the  poem,  only  as  being  discordant  with  the  other ; 
and,  in  subservience  to  that  end,  it  was  politically 
done  in  me  to  over-pass,  and  make  no  mention  of, 
merit  which,  could  you  think  me  capable  of  over- 
looking, might  reasonably  damn  forever  in  your 
judgment  all  pretensions  in  me  to  be  critical.  There, 
I  will  be  judged  by  Lloyd  whether  I  have  not  made 
a  very  handsome  recantation.  I  was  in  the  case  of 
a  man  whose  friend  has  asked  him  his  opinion  of  a 
certain  young  lady ;  the  deluded  wight  gives  judg- 
ment against  her  in  toto,  —  don't  like  her  face,  her 

1  See  Letter  VIII. 


86  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

walk,  her  manners ;  finds  fault  with  her  eyebrows  ; 
can  see  no  wit  in  her.  His  friend  looks  blank ; 
he  begins  to  smell  a  rat ;  wind  veers  about ;  he  ac- 
knowledges her  good  sense,  her  judgment  in  dress, 
a  certain  simplicity  of  manners  and  honesty  of  heart, 
something  too  in  her  manners  which  gains  upon  you 
after  a  short  acquaintance,  —  and  then  her  accurate 
pronunciation  of  the  French  language,  and  a  pretty, 
uncultivated  taste  in  drawing.  The  reconciled  gen- 
tleman smiles  applause,  squeezes  him  by  the  hand, 
and  hopes  he  will  do  him  the  honor  of  taking  a  bit 

of  dinner  with  Mrs. and  him  —  a  plain  family 

dinner  —  some  day  next  week ;  "  for,  I  suppose, 
you  never  heard  we  were  married.  I  'm  glad  to 
see  you  like  my  wife,  however ;  you  '11  come  and 
see  her,  ha?"  Now  am  I  too  proud  to  retract  en- 
tirely? Yet  I  do  perceive  I  am  in  some  sort  strait- 
ened ;  you  are  manifestly  wedded  to  this  poem,  and 
what  fancy  has  joined,  let  no  man  separate.  I  turn 
me  to  the  "Joan  of  Arc,"  second  book. 

The  solemn  openings  of  it  are  with  sounds  which, 
Lloyd  would  say,  "  are  silence  to  the  mind."  The 
deep  preluding  strains  are  fitted  to  initiate  the  mind, 
with  a  pleasing  awe,  into  the  sublimest  mysteries  of 
theory  concerning  man's  nature  and  his  noblest 
destination,  —  the  philosophy  of  a  first  cause ;  of 
subordinate  agents  in  creation  superior  to  man ; 
the  subserviency  of  pagan  worship  and  pagan  faith 
to  the  introduction  of  a  purer  and  more  perfect  reli- 
gion, which  you  so  elegantly  describe  as  winning, 
with  gradual  steps,  her  difficult  way  northward  from 
Bethabara.     After  all  this  cometh  Joan,  a  publican'' s 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  87 

daughter,  sitting  on  an  ale-house  bench,  and  marking 
the  swingings  of  the  signboard,  finding  a  poor  man, 
his  wife  and  six  children,  starved  to  death  with  cold, 
and  thence  roused  into  a  state  of  mind  proper  to 
receive  visions  emblematical  of  equality,  —  which, 
what  the  devil  Joan  had  to  do  with,  I  don't  know, 
or  indeed  with  the  French  and  American  revolu- 
tions ;  though  that  needs  no  pardon,  it  is  executed 
so  nobly.  After  all,  if  you  perceive  no  dispropor- 
tion, all  argument  is  vain ;  I  do  not  so  much  object 
to  parts.  Again,  when  you  talk  of  building  your 
fame  on  these  Unes  in  preference  to  the  "  Religious 
Musings,"  I  cannot  help  conceiving  of  you  and  of 
the  author  of  that  as  two  different  persons,  and  I 
think  you  a  very  vain  man. 

I  have  been  re-reading  your  letter.  Much  of  it  I 
r^z//^/ dispute  ;  but  with  the  latter  part  of  it,  in  which 
you  compare  the  two  Joans  with  respect  to  their 
predispositions  for  fanaticism,  I  toto  corde  coincide  ; 
only  I  think  that  Southey's  strength  rather  lies  in 
the  description  of  the  emotions  of  the  Maid  under 
the  weight  of  inspiration.  These  (I  see  no  mighty 
difference  between  her  describing  them  or  you  de- 
scribing them), —  these  if  you  only  equal,  the  pre- 
vious admirers  of  his  poem,  as  is  natural,  will  prefer 
his  ;  if  you  surpass,  prejudice  will  scarcely  allow  it, 
and  I  scarce  think  you  will  surpass,  though  your 
specimen  at  the  conclusion  (I  am  in  earnest)  I  think 
very  nigh  equals  them.  And  in  an  account  of  a 
fanatic  or  of  a  prophet  the  description  of  her  emo- 
tions is  expected  to  be  most  highly  finished.  By 
the  way,  I  spoke  far  too  disparagingly  of  your  Unes, 


88  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

and,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  purposely.  I  should  like 
you  to  specify  or  particularize ;  the  story  of  the 
"Tottering  Eld,"  of  "his  eventful  years  all  come 
and  gone,"  is  too  general;  why  not  make  him  a 
soldier,  or  some  character,  however,  in  which  he 
has  been  witness  to  frequency  of  "  cruel  wrong  and 
strange  distress "  ?  I  think  I  should.  When  I 
laughed  at  the  "  miserable  man  crawling  from 
beneath  the  coverture,"  I  wonder  I  did  not  perceive 
it  was  a  laugh  of  horror, —  such  as  I  have  laughed 
at  Dante's  picture  of  the  famished  UgoUno.  With- 
out falsehood,  I  perceive  an  hundred  beauties  in 
your  narrative.  Yet  I  wonder  you  do  not  perceive 
something  out-of-the-way,  something  unsimple  and 
artificial,  in  the  expression,  "  voiced  a  sad  tale."  I 
hate  made-dishes  at  the  muses'  banquet.  I  be- 
lieve I  was  wrong  in  most  of  my  other  objections. 
But  surely  "  hailed  him  immortal  "  adds  nothing  to 
the  terror  of  the  man's  death,  which  it  was  your 
business  to  heighten,  not  diminish  by  a  phrase 
which  takes  away  all  terror  from  it.  I  like  that  line, 
"  They  closed  their  eyes  in  sleep,  nor  knew  't  was 
death."  Indeed,  there  is  scarce  a  line  I  do  not  like. 
"  Turbid  ecstasy  "  is  surely  not  so  good  as  what 
you  had  wxxXX&xi,  —  "troublous."  "  Turbid  "  rather 
suits  the  muddy  kind  of  inspiration  which  London 
porter  confers.  The  versification  is  throughout,  to 
my  ears,  unexceptionable,  with  no  disparagement  to 
the  measure  of  the  "  Religious  Musings,"  which  is 
exactly  fitted  to  the  thoughts. 

You  were  building  your  house  on  a   rock  when 
you  rested  your  fame  on  that  poem.     I  can  scarce 


LETTERS   OE  CHARLES  LAMB.  89 

bring  myself  to  believe  that  I  am  admitted  to  a 
familiar  correspondence,  and  all  the  license  of  friend- 
ship, with  a  man  who  writes  blank  verse  like  Milton. 
Now,  this  is  delicate  flattery,  indirect  flattery.  Go 
on  with  your  "  Maid  of  Orleans,"  and  be  content  to 
be  second  to  yourself.  I  shall  become  a  convert  to 
it,  when  't  is  finished. 

This  afternoon  I  attend  the  funeral  of  my  poor 
old  aunt,  who  died  on  Thursday.  I  own  I  am  thank- 
ful that  the  good  creature  has  ended  all  her  days  of 
suffering  and  infirmity.  She  was  to  me  the  "  che- 
risher  of  infancy  ;  "  and  one  must  fall  on  these  occa- 
sions into  reflections,  which  it  would  be  common- 
place to  enumerate,  concerning  death,  "  of  chance 
and  change,  and  fiite  in  human  life."  Good  God, 
who  could  have  foreseen  all  this  but  four  months 
back  !  I  had  reckoned,  in  particular,  on  my  aunt's 
living  many  years  ;  she  was  a  very  hearty  old  woman. 
But  she  was  a  mere  skeleton  before  she  died  ;  looked 
more  like  a  corpse  that  had  lain  weeks  in  the  grave, 
than  one  fresh  dead.  "  Truly  the  light  is  sweet,  and 
a  pleasant  thing  it  is  for  the  eyes  to  behold  the  sun  : 
but  let  a  man  live  many  days,  and  rejoice  in  them 
all ;  yet  let  him  remember  the  days  of  darkness,  for 
they  shall  be  many."  Coleridge,  why  are  we  to  live 
on  after  all  the  strength  and  beauty  of  existence  are 
gone,  when  all  the  life  of  life  is  fled,  as  poor  Burns 
expresses  it?  Tell  Lloyd  I  have  had  thoughts  of 
turning  Quaker,  and  have  been  reading,  or  am  rather 
just  beginning  to  read,  a  most  capital  book,  good 
thoughts  in  good  language,  William  Penn's  "  No 
Cross,  no  Crown ;  "  I  like  it  immensely.     Unluckily 


go  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

I  went  to  one  of  his  meetings,  tell  him,  in  St.  John 
Street,  yesterday,  and  saw  a  man  under  all  the  agita- 
tions and  workings  of  a  fanatic,  who  believed  himself 
under  the  influence  of  some '' inevitable  presence." 
This  cured  me  of  Quakerism  ;  I  love  it  in  the  books 
of  Penn  and  VVoolman,  but  I  detest  the  vanity  of  a 
man  thinking  he  speaks  by  the  Spirit,  when  what 
he  says  an  ordinary  man  might  say  without  all  that 
quaking  and  trembling.  In  the  midst  of  his  inspi- 
ration,—  and  the  effects  of  it  were  most  noisy, —  was 
handed  into  the  midst  of  the  meeting  a  most  terrible 
blackguard  Wapping  sailor  ;  the  poor  man,  I  believe, 
had  rather  have  been  in  the  hottest  part  of  an 
engagement,  for  the  congregation  of  broad-brims, 
together  with  the  ravings  of  the  prophet,  were  too 
much  for  his  gravity,  though  I  saw  even  he  had 
delicacy  enough  not  to  laugh  out.  And  the  inspired 
gentleman,  though  his  manner  was  so  supernatural, 
yet  neither  talked  nor  professed  to  talk  anything 
more  than  good  sober  sense,  common  morality,  with 
now  and  then  a  declaration  of  not  speaking  from 
himself.  Among  other  things,  looking  back  to  this 
childhood  and  early  youth,  he  told  the  meeting  what 
a  graceless  young  dog  he  had  been,  that  in  his  youth 
he  had  a  good  share  of  wit.  Reader,  if  thou  hadst 
seen  the  gentleman,  thou  wouldst  have  sworn  that 
it  must  indeed  have  been  many  years  ago,  for  his 
rueful  physiognomy  would  have  scared  away  the  play- 
ful goddess  from  the  meeting,  where  he  presided, 
forever.  A  wit !  a  wit !  what  could  he  mean  ? 
Lloyd,  it  minded  me  of  Falkland  in  the  "  Rivals," 
"  Am  I  full  of  wit  and  humor?    No,  indeed,  you  are 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  91 

not.  Am  I  the  life  and  soul  of  every  company  I 
come  into?  No,  it  cannot  be  said  you  are."  That 
hard-faced  gentleman  a  wit  !  Why,  Nature  wrote 
on  his  fanatic  forehead  fifty  years  ago,  "  Wit  never 
comes,  that  comes  to  all."  I  should  be  as  scanda- 
lized at  a  bon-mot  issuing  from  his  oracle-looking 
mouth  as  to  see  Cato  go  down  a  country-dance. 
God  love  you  all !  You  are  very  good  to  submit 
to  be  pleased  with  reading  my  nothings.  'T  is  the 
privilege  of  friendship  to  talk  nonsense  and  to  have 
her  nonsense  respected.       Yours  ever, 

C.  Lamb. 


XIV. 

TO   COLERIDGE. 

January  28,  1798. 
You  have  writ  me  many  kind  letters,  and  I  have 
answered  none  of  them.  I  don't  deserve  your 
attentions.  An  unnatural  indifference  has  been 
creeping  on  me  since  my  last  misfortunes,  or  I 
should  have  seized  the  first  opening  of  a  corre- 
spondence with  you.  To  you  I  owe  much  under 
God.  In  my  brief  acquaintance  with  you  in  Lon- 
don, your  conversations  won  me  to  the  better  cause, 
and  rescued  me  from  the  polluting  spirit  of  the 
world.  I  might  have  been  a  worthless  character 
without  you ;  as  it  is,  I  do  possess  a  certain  im- 
provable portion  of  devotional  feelings,  though  when 
I  view  myself  in  the  light  of  divine  truth,  and  not 
according  to  the  common  measures  of  human  judg- 


92  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

ment,  I  am  altogether  corrupt  and  sinful.     This  is 
no  cant.     I  am  very  sincere. 

These  last  afflictions,!  Coleridge,  have  failed  to 
soften  and  bend  my  will.  They  found  me  unpre- 
pared. My  former  calamities  produced  in  me  a 
spirit  of  humility  and  a  spirit  of  prayer.  I  thought 
they  had  sufficiently  disciplined  me ;  but  the  event 
ought  to  humble  me.  If  God's  judgments  now  fail 
to  take  away  from  me  the  heart  of  stone,  what  more 
grievous  trials  ought  I  not  to  expect?  I  have  been 
very  querulous,  impatient  under  the  rod,  full  of  lit- 
tle jealousies  and  heartburnings.  I  had  wellnigh 
quarrelled  with  Charles  Lloyd,  and  for  no  other 
reason,  I  believe,  than  that  the  good  creature  did 
all  he  could  to  make  me  happy.  The  truth  is,  I 
thought  he  tried  to  force  my  mind  from  its  natural 
and  proper  bent :  he  continually  wished  me  to  be 
from  home  ;  he  was  drawing  me  from  the  consider- 
ation of  my  poor  dear  Mary's  situation,  rather  than 
assisting  me  to  gain  a  proper  view  of  it  with  relig- 
ious consolations.  I  wanted  to  be  left  to  the  ten- 
dency of  my  own  mind  in  a  solitary  state  which, 
in  times  past,  I  knew  had  led  to  quietness  and  a 
patient  bearing  of  the  yoke.  He  was  hurt  that  I 
was  not  more  constantly  with  him ;  but  he  was 
living  with  White,  —  a  man  to  whom  I  had  never 
been  accustomed  to  impart  my  dearest  feelings, 
though  from  long  habits  of  friendliness,  and  many 
a  social  and  good  quality,  I  loved  him  very  much. 
I  met  company  there  sometimes,  —  indiscriminate 
company.     Any  society  almost,  when  I  am  in  afflic- 

^  Mary  Lamb  had  fallen  ill  again. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  93 

tion,  is  sorely  painful  to  me.  I  seem  to  breathe 
more  freely,  to  think  more  collectedly,  to  feel  more 
properly  and  calmly,  when  alone.  All  these  things 
the  good  creature  did  with  the  kindest  intentions 
in  the  world,  but  they  produced  in  me  nothing  but 
soreness  and  discontent.  I  became,  as  he  com- 
plained, "jaundiced  "  towards  him.  .  .  .  But  he  has 
forgiven  me ;  and  his  smile,  I  hope,  will  draw  all 
such  humors  from  me.  I  am  recovering,  God  be 
praised  for  it,  a  healthiness  of  mind,  something  like 
calmness ;  but  I  want  more  religion,  I  am  jealous 
of  human  helps  and  leaning-places.  I  rejoice  in 
your  good  fortunes.  May  God  at  the  last  settle 
you  !  You  have  had  many  and  painful  trials ;  hu- 
manly speaking,  they  are  going  to  end ;  but  we 
should  rather  pray  that  discipline  may  attend  us 
through  the  whole  of  our  lives.  ...  A  careless  and 
a  dissolute  spirit  has  adv^anced  upon  jjie  with  large 
strides.  Pray  God  that  my  present  afflictions  may 
be  sanctified  to  me  !  Mary  is  recovering ;  but  I 
see  no  opening  yet  of  a  situation  for  her.  Your  invi- 
tation went  to  my  very  heart ;  but  you  have  a  power 
of  exciting  interest,  of  leading  all  hearts  captive,  too 
forcible  to  admit  of  Mary's  being  with  you.  I  con- 
sider her  as  perpetually  on  the  brink  of  madness. 
I  think  you  would  almost  make  her  dance  within!* 
an  inch  of  the  precipice  ;  she  must  be  with  duller 
fancies  and  cooler  intellects.  I  know  a  young  man. 
of  this  description  who  has  suited  her  these  twenty 
years,  and  may  live  to  do  so  still,  if  we  are  one  day 
restored  to  each  other.  In  answer  to  your  sugges- 
tions of  occupation  for  me,  I  must  say  that  I  do 


94  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

not  think  my  capacity  altogether  suited  for  dis- 
quisitions of  that  kind.  ...  I  have  read  little ;  I 
have  a  very  weak  memory,  and  retain  little  of  what 
I  read ;  am  unused  to  composition  in  which  any 
methodizing  is  required.  But  I  thank  you  sincerely 
for  the  hint,  and  shall  receive  it  as  far  as  I  am  able, 
—  that  is,  endeavor  to  engage  my  mind  in  some  con- 
stant and  innocent  pursuit.  I  know  my  capacities 
better  than  you  do. 

Accept   my  kindest  love,  and  believe  me  yours, 

as  ever. 

C.  L. 

XV. 

TO  ROBERT   SOUTHEY 

(No  month,  1798.) 
Dear  Southey,  —  I  thank  you  heartily  for  the 
eclogue ;  ^  it  pleases  me  mightily,  being  so  full 
of  picture-work  and  circumstances.  I  find  no  fault 
in  it,  unless  perhaps  that  Joanna's  ruin  is  a  catas- 
trophe too  trite  ;  and  this  is  not  the  first  or  second 
time  you  have  clothed  your  indignation,  in  verse,  in 
a  tale  of  ruined  innocence.  The  old  lady,  spinning 
in  the  sun,  I  hope  would  not  disdain  to  claim  some 
kindred  with  old  Margaret.  I  could  almost  wish 
you  to  vary  some  circumstances  in  the  conclusion. 
A  gentleman  seducer  has  so  often  been  described 
in  prose  and  verse  :  what  if  you  had  accomplished 
Joanna's  ruin  by  the  clumsy  arts  and  rustic  gifts 
of  some  country  fellow?  I  am  thinking,  I  believe, 
of  the  song,  — 

1  The  eclogue  was  entitled  "  The  Ruined  Cottage." 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  95 

"  An  old  woman  clothed  in  graj-, 

Whose  daughter  was  charming  and  young, 
And  she  was  deluded  away 

By  Roger's  false,  flattering  tongue." 

A  Roger-Lothario  would  be  a  novel  character;  I 
think  you  might  paint  him  very  well.  You  may 
think  this  a  very  silly  suggestion,  and  so  indeed  it 
is ;  but,  in  good  truth,  nothing  else  but  the  first 
words  of  that  foolish  ballad  put  me  upon  scribbling 
my  "  Rosamund."  ^  But  I  thank  you  heartily  for 
the  poem.  Not  having  anything  of  my  o\\ti  to  send 
you  in  return,  —  though,  to  tell  truth,  I  am  at  work 
upon  something  which,  if  I  were  to  cut  away  and 
garble,  perhaps  I  might  send  you  an  extract  or  two 
that  might  not  displease  you ;  but  I  will  not  do 
that ;  and  whether  it  will  come  to  anything,  I  know 
not,  for  I  am  as  slow  as  a  Fleming  painter  when 
I  compose  anything.  I  will  crave  leave  to  put 
down  a  few  lines  of  old  Christopher  Marlowe's ;  I 
take  them  from  his  tragedy,  "The  Jew  of  Malta." 
The  Jew  is  a  famous  character,  quite  out  of  nature  ; 
but  when  we  consider  the  terrible  idea  our  simple 
ancestors  had  of  a  Jew,  not  more  to  be  discom- 
mended for  a  certain  discoloring  (I  think  Addison 
calls  it)  than  the  witches  and  fairies  of  Marlowe's 
mighty  successor.  The  scene  is  betwixt  Barabas, 
the  Jew,  and  Ithamore,  a  Turkish  captive  exposed 
to   sale  for  a  slave. 

B.\RABAS. 

{A precious  rascal.) 
"  As  for  myself,  I  walk  abroad  o'  nights, 
And  kill  sick  people  groaning  under  walls  ; 

1  His  romance,  "  Rosamund  Gray." 


96  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Sometimes  I  go  about  and  poison  wells ; 

And  now  and  then,  to  cherish  Christian  thieves, 

I  am  content  to  lose  some  of  my  crowns, 

That  I  may,  walking  in  my  gallery. 

See  'm  go  pinioned  along  by  my  door. 

Being  young,  I  studied  physic,  and  began 

To  practise  first  upon  the  Italian  ; 

There  I  enriched  the  priests  with  burials, 

And  always  kept  the  sexton's  arms  in  ure^ 

With  digging  graves  and  ringing  dead  men's  knells. 

And  after  that,  was  I  an  engineer, 

And  in  the  wars  'twixt  France  and  Germany, 

Under  pretence  of  serving  Charles  the  Fifth, 

Slew  friend  and  enemy  with  my  stratagems. 

Then  after  that  was  I  an  usurer, 

And  with  extorting,  cozening,  forfeiting, 

And  tricks  belonging  unto  brokery, 

I  fill'd  the  jails  with  bankrupts  in  a  year, 

And  with  young  orphans  planted  hospitals, 

And  every  moon  made  some  or  other  mad ; 

And  now  and  then  one  hang'd  himself  for  grief, 

Pinning  upon  his  breast  a  long  great  scroll. 

How  I  with  interest  tormented  him." 

Now  hear  Ithamore,  the  other  gentle  nature,  ex- 
plain how  he  has  spent  his  time  :  — 

Ithamore. 

( A  Com  ical  Dog. ) 

"  Faith,  master,  in  setting  Christian  villages  on  fire, 
Chaining  of  eunuchs,  binding  galley-slaves. 
One  time  I  was  an  hostler  in  an  inn. 
And  in  the  night-time  secret  would  I  steal 
To  travellers'  chambers,  and  there  cut  their  throats. 
Once  at  Jerusalem,  where  the  pilgrims  kneel'd, 
I  strewed  powder  on  the  marble  stones, 
And  therewithal  their  knees  would  rankle  so, 

1  Use. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  97 

That  I  have  laugh'd  a-good  to  see  the  cripples 
Go  limping  home  to  Christendom  on  stilts." 

Barabas. 
"  Why,  this  is  something." 

There  is  a  mixture  of  the  ludicrous  and  the 
terrible  in  these  lines,  brimful  of  genius  and  antique 
invention,  that  at  first  reminded  me  of  your  old 
description  of  cruelty  in  hell,  which  was  in  the  true 
Hogarthian  style.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  Marlowe 
was  author  of  that  pretty  madrigal,  "  Come  live  with 
me,  and  be  my  Love,"  and  of  the  tragedy  of  "  Ed- 
ward II.,"  in  which  are  certain  lines  unequalled  in 
our  English  tongue.  Honest  Walton  mentions  the 
said  madrigal  under  the  denomination  of  "  certain 
smooth  verses  made  long  since  by  Kit  Marlowe." 

I  am  glad  you  have  put  me  on  the  scent  after  old 
Quarles.  If  I  do  not  put  up  those  eclogues,  and 
that  shortly,  say  I  am  no  true-nosed  hound.  I  have 
had  a  letter  from  Lloyd  ;  the  young  metaphysician 
of  Caius  is  well,  and  is  busy  recanting  the  new 
heresy,  metaphysics,  for  the  old  dogma  Greek.  My 
sister,  I  thank  you,  is  quite  well.  She  had  a  slight 
attack  the  other  day,  which  frightened  me  a  good 
deal ;  but  it  went  off  unaccountably.  Love  and 
respects  to  Edith. 

Yours  sincerely, 

C.  L-uiB. 


98  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


XVI. 

TO  SOUTHEY. 

November  8,  1798. 
I  PERFECTLY  accord  with  your  opinion  of  old  Wither. 
Quarles  is  a  wittier  writer,  but  Wither  lays  more  hold 
of  the  heart.  Quarles  thinks  of  his  audience  when 
he  lectures ;  Wither  soliloquizes  in  company  with  a 
full  heart.  What  wretched  stuff  are  the  "  Divine 
Fancies"  of  Quarles  !  Religion  appears  to  him  no 
longer  valuable  than  it  furnishes  matter  for  quibbles 
and  riddles ;  he  turns  God's  grace  into  wantonness. 
Wither  is  like  an  old  friend,  whose  warm-heartedness 
and  estimable  qualities  make  us  wish  he  possessed 
more  genius,  but  at  the  same  time  make  us  willing 
to  dispense  with  that  want.  I  always  love  W.,  and 
sometimes  admire  Q.  Still,  that  portrait  is  a  fine 
one  ;  and  the  extract  from  "  The  Shepherds'  Hunt- 
ing" places  him  in  a  starry  height  far  above  Quarles. 
If  you  wrote  that  review  in  "Crit.  Rev.,"  I  am  sorry 
you  are  so  sparing  of  praise  to  the  "  Ancient  Mari- 
nere ;  "  ^  so  far  from  calling  it,  as  you  do,  with 
some  wit  but  more  severity,  "A  Dutch  Attempt," 
etc.,  I  call  it  a  right  English  attempt,  and  a  success- 
ful one,  to  dethrone  German  sublimity.  You  have 
selected  a  passage  fertile  in  unmeaning  miracles,  but 
have  passed  by  fifty  passages  as  miraculous  as  the 

1  The  "Lyrical  Ballads  "of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge 
had  just  appeared.  The  volume  contained  four  pieces,  in- 
cluding the  "Ancient  Mariner,"  by  Coleridge. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  99 

miracles  they  celebrate.  I  never  so  deeply  felt  the 
pathetic  as  in  that  part,  — 

"  A  spring  of  love  gush'd  from  my  heart, 
And  I  bless'd  them  unaware." 

It  Stung  me  into  high  pleasure  through  sufferings. 
Lloyd  does  not  like  it ;  his  head  is  too  metaphysical, 
and  your  taste  too  correct,  —  at  least  I  must  allege 
something  against  you  both,  to  excuse  my  own 
dotage,  — 

"  So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be  !  "  etc. 

But  you  allow  some  elaborate  beauties ;  you  should 
have  extracted  'em.  "  The  Ancient  Marinere  "  plays 
more  tricks  with  the  mind  than  that  last  poem, 
which  is  yet  one  of  the  finest  written.  But  I  am 
getting  too  dogmatical ;  and  before  I  degenerate 
into  abuse,  I  will  conclude  with  assuring  you  that 
I  am,  Sincerely  yours, 

C.  Lamb. 


XVII. 

TO   SOUTHEY. 


Noveviber  28,  1798. 


I  SHOWED  my  "  Witch  "  and  "  Dying  Lover  "  to 
Dyer  ^  last  night ;   but   George   could  not  compre- 

^  This  quaint  scholar,  a  marvel  of  simplicity  and  universal 
optimism,  is  a  constantly  recurring  and  delightfully  humorous 
character  in  the  Letters.  Lamb  and  Dyer  had  been  school- 
fellows at  Christ's  Hospital. 


lOO  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

hend  how  that  could  be  poetry  which  did  not  go 
upon  ten  feet,  as  George  and  his  predecessors  had 
taught  it  to  do ;  so  George  read  me  some  lectures 
on  the  distinguishing  qualities  of  the  Ode,  the  Epi- 
gram, and  the  Epic,  and  went  home  to  illustrate  his 
doctrine  by  correcting  a  proof-sheet  of  his  own 
Lyrics.  George  writes  odes  where  the  rhymes,  like 
fashionable  man  and  wife,  keep  a  comfortable  dis- 
tance of  six  or  eight  lines  apart,  and  calls  that  "  ob- 
serving the  laws  of  verse."  George  tells  you,  before 
he  recites,  that  you  must  Usten  with  great  attention, 
or  you  '11  miss  the  rhymes.  I  did  so,  and  found 
them  pretty  exact.  George,  speaking  of  the  dead 
Ossian,  exclaimeth,  "  Dark  are  the  poet's  eyes."  I 
humbly  represented  to  him  that  his  own  eyes  were 
dark,  and  many  a  living  bard's  besides,  and  recom- 
mended "  Clos'd  are  the  poet's  eyes."  But  that 
would  not  do.  I  found  there  was  an  antithesis  be- 
tween the  darkness  of  his  eyes  and  the  splendor  of 
his  genius,  and  I  acquiesced. 

Your  recipe  for  a  Turk's  poison  is  invaluable 
and  truly  Marlowish.  .  .  .  Lloyd  objects  to  "  shut- 
ting up  the  womb  of  his  purse  "  in  my  Curse  (which 
for  a  Christian  witch  in  a  Christian  country  is  not 
too  mild,  I  hope):  do  you  object?  I  think  there 
is  a  strangeness  in  the  idea,  as  well  as  "  shaking  the 
poor  like  snakes  from  his  door,"  which  suits  the 
speaker.  Witches  illustrate,  as  fine  ladies  do,  from 
their  own  familiar  objects,  and  snakes  and  shutting 
up  of  wombs  are  in  their  way.  I  don't  know  that 
this  last  charge  has  been  before  brought  against  'em, 
nor  either  the  sour  milk  or  the  mandrake  babe ;  but 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  loi 

I  affirm   these  be  things  a  witch  would   do  if  she 
could. 

My  tragedy  ^  will  be  a  medley  (as  I  intend  it  to 
be  a  medley)  of  laughter  and  tears,  prose  and  verse, 
and  in  some  places  rhyme,  songs,  wit,  pathos,  hu- 
mor, and  if  possible,,  sublimity,  —  at  least,  it  is  not 
a  fault  in  my  intention  if  it  does  not  comprehend 
most  of  these  discordant  colors.  Heaven  send  they 
dance  not  the  "  Dance  of  Death  !  "  I  hear  that 
the  Two  Noble  Englishmen  -  have  parted  no  sooner 
than  they  set  foot  on  German  earth ;  but  I  have  not 
heard  the  reason,  —  possibly  to  give  novelists  a 
handle  to  exclaim,  "  Ah  me,  what  things  are  per- 
fect !  "  I  think  I  shall  adopt  your  emendation  in 
the  "  Dying  Lover,"  though  I  do  not  myself  feel  the 
objection  against  "  Silent  Prayer."  ■ 
^~"  My  tailor  has  brought  me  home  a  new  coat 
lapelled,  with  a  velvet  collar.  He  assures  me  every- 
body wears  velvet  collars  now.  Some  are  born 
fashionable,  some  achieve  fashion,  and  others,  like 
your  humble  ser\'ant,  have  fashion  thrust  upon  them. 
The  rogue  has  been  making  inroads  hitherto  by  mod- 
est degrees,  foisting  upon  me  an  additional  button, 
recommending  gaiters  ;  but  to  come  upon  me  thus  in 
a  full  tide  of  luxury,  neither  becomes  him  as  a  tailor 
or  the  ninth  of  a  man.  My  meek  gentleman  was 
robbed  the  other  day,  coming  with  his  wife  and  fam- 
ily in  a  one-horse  shay  from  Hampstead  ;  the  villains 
rifled  him  of  four  guineas,  some  shillings  and  half- 

1  John  Woodvil. 

2  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  who   started  for  Germany 
tosrether. 


102  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

pence,  and  a  bundle  of  customers'  measures,  which 
they  swore  were  bank-notes.  They  did  not  shoot 
him,  and  when  they  rode  off  he  addressed  them  with 
profound  gratitude,  making  a  congee  :  "  Gentlemen, 
I  wish  you  good-night ;  and  we  are  very  much  obliged 
to  you  that  you  have  not  used  us  ill !  "  And  this  is 
the  cuckoo  that  has  the  audacity  to  foist  upon  me 
ten  buttons  on  a  side  and  a  black  velvet  collar,  —  a 
cursed  ninth  of  a  scoundrel  ! 

When  you  write  to  Lloyd,  he  wishes  his  Jacobin 
correspondents  to  address  him  as  Mr.  C.  L.     Love 
and  respects  to  Edith.     I  hope  she  is  well. 
Yours  sincerely, 

C.  Lamb. 

XVIII. 

TO   SOUTHEY. 

March  20,  1799. 
I  AM  hugely  pleased  with  your  "  Spider,"  "  your 
old  freemason,"  as  you  call  him.  The  three  first 
stanzas  are  delicious ;  they  seem  to  me  a  com- 
pound of  Burns  and  Old  Quarles,  those  kind  of 
home-strokes,  where  more  is  felt  than  strikes  the 
ear,  —  a  terseness,  a  jocular  pathos  which  makes 
one  feel  in  laughter.  The  measure,  too,  is  novel 
and  pleasing.  I  could  almost  wonder  Rob  Burns 
in  his  lifetime  never  stumbled  upon  it.  The  fourth 
stanza  is  less  striking,  as  being  less  original.  The 
fifth  falls  off.  It  has  no  felicity  of  phrase,  no  old- 
fashioned  phrase  or  feeling. 

"  Young  hopes,  and  love's  delightful  dreams," 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  103 

savor  neither  of  Burns  nor  Quarles  ;  they  seem  more 
like  shreds  of  many  a  modern  sentimental  sonnet. 
The  last  stanza  hath  nothing  striking  in  it,  if  I  ex- 
cept the  two  concluding  lines,  which  are  Burns  all 
over.  I  wish,  if  you  concur  with  me,  these  things 
could  be  looked  to.  I  am  sure  this  is  a  kind  of 
writing  which  comes  tenfold  better  recommended 
to  the  heart,  comes  there  more  like  a  neighbor  or 
familiar,  than  thousands  of  Hamnels  and  Zillahs 
and  Madelons.  I  beg  you  will  send  me  the  "  Holly- 
tree,"  if  it  at  all  resemble  this,  for  it  must  please 
me.  I  have  never  seen  it.  I  love  this  sort  of 
poems,  that  open  a  new  intercourse  with  the  most 
despised  of  the  animal  and  insect  race.  I  think 
this  vein  may  be  further  opened  ;  Peter  Pindar  hath 
very  prettily  apostrophized  a  fly ;  Burns  hath  his 
mouse  and  his  louse  ;  Coleridge,  less  successfully, 
hath  made  overtures  of  intimacy  to  a  jackass, 
—  therein  only  following  at  unresembling  distance 
Sterne  and  greater  Cervantes.  Besides  these,  I 
know  of  no  other  examples  of  breaking  down  the 
partition  between  us  and  our  "  poor  earth-born 
companions."  It  is  sometimes  revolting  to  be  put 
in  a  track  of  feeling  by  other  people,  not  one's  own 
immediate  thoughts,  else  I  would  persuade  you,  if 
I  could  (I  am  in  earnest),  to  commence  a  series  of 
these  animal  poems,  which  might  have  a  tendency 
to  rescue  some  poor  creatures  from  the  antipathy 
of  mankind.  Some  thoughts  come  across  me  : 
for  instance,  to  a  rat,  to  a  toad,  to  a  cockchafer, 
to  a  mole,  —  people  bake  moles  alive  by  a  slow 
oven-fire  to  cure  consumption.     Rats  are,  indeed, 


I04  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

the  most  despised  and  contemptible  parts  of  God's 
earth.  I  killed  a  rat  the  other  day  by  punching 
him  to  pieces,  and  feel  a  weight  of  blood  upon  me 
to  this  hour.  Toads,  you  know,  are  made  to  fly, 
and  tumble  down  and  crush  all  to  pieces.  Cock- 
chafers are  old  sport ;  then  again  to  a  worm,  with 
an  apostrophe  to  anglers,  —  those  patient  tyrants, 
meek  inflictors  of  pangs  intolerable,  cool  devils  ;  ^  to 
an  owl ;  to  all  snakes,  with  an  apology  for  their 
poison  ;  to  a  cat  in  boots  or  bladders.  Your  own 
fancy,  if  it  takes  a  fancy  to  these  hints,  will  suggest 
many  more.  A  series  of  such  poems,  suppose  them 
accompanied  with  plates  descriptive  of  animal  tor- 
ments,—  cooks  roasting  lobsters,  fishmongers  crimp- 
ing skates,  etc.,  —  would  take  excessively.  I  will 
willingly  enter  into  a  partnership  in  the  plan  with 
you ;  I  think  my  heart  and  soul  would  go  with  it 
too,  —  at  least,  give  it  a  thought.  My  plan  is  but 
this  minute  come  into  my  head ;  but  it  strikes  me 
instantaneously  as  something  new,  good,  and  useful, 
full  of  pleasure  and  full  of  moral.  If  old  Quarles 
and  Wither  could  live  again,  we  would  invite  them 
into  our  firm.     Burns  hath  done  his  part. 

Poor  Sam   Le  Grice  !      I   am    afraid    the   world 

1  Leigh  Hunt  says  :  "Walton  says  that  an  angler  does  no 
hurt  but  to  fish ;  and  this  he  counts  as  nothing.  .  .  .  Now, 
fancy  a  Genius  fishing  for  us.  Fancy  him  baiting  a  great 
hook  with  pickled  salmon,  and  twitching  up  old  Izaac  Walton 
from  the  banks  of  the  River  Lee,  with  the  hook  through  his 
ear.  How  he  would  go  up,  roaring  and  screaming,  and 
thinking  the  devil  had  got  him ! 

"  '  Other  ioys 
Are  but  toys.' 

Walton." 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  105 

and  the  camp  and  the  university  have  spoiled  him 
among  them.  'T  is  certain  he  had  at  one  time  a 
strong  capacity  of  turning  out  something  better.  I 
knew  him,  and  that  not  long  since,  when  he  had  a 
most  warm  heart.  I  am  ashamed  of  the  indiffer- 
ence I  have  sometimes  felt  towards  him.  I  think 
the  devil  is  in  one's  heart.  I  am  under  obligations 
to  that  man  for  the  warmest  friendship  and  hear- 
tiest sympathy,^  even  for  an  agony  of  sympathy 
expressed  both  by  word  and  deed,  and  tears  for  me 
when  I  was  in  my  greatest  distress.  But  I  have 
forgot  that,  —  as,  I  fear,  he  has  nigh  forgot  the  aw- 
ful scenes  which  were  before  his  eyes  when  he 
served  the  office  of  a  comforter  to  me.  No  service 
was  too  mean  or  troublesome  for  him  to  perform. 
I  can't  think  what  but  the  devil,  "  that  old  spider," 
could  have  suck'd  my  heart  so  dry  of  its  sense  of 
all  gratitude.  If  he  does  come  in  your  way,  Southey, 
fail  not  to  tell  him  that  I  retain  a  most  affectionate 
remembrance  of  his  old  friendliness,  and  an  earnest 
wish  to  resume  our  intercourse.  In  this  I  am  seri- 
ous. I  cannot  recommend  him  to  your  society, 
because  I  am  afraid  whether  he  be  quite  worthy  of 
it.  But  I  have  no  right  to  dismiss  him  from  my 
regard.  He  was  at  one  time,  and  in  the  worst  of 
times,  my  own  familiar  friend,  and  great  comfort  to 
me  then.  I  have  known  him  to  play  at  cards  with 
my  father,  meal-times  excepted,  literally  all  day 
long,  in  long  days  too,  to  save  me  from  being  teased 
by  the  old  man  when  I  was  not  able  to  bear  it. 
God  bless  him  for  it,  and  God  bless  you,  Southey  ! 

C.  L. 

1  See  Letter  VI. 


Io6  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


XIX. 

TO  THOMAS   MANNING.* 

March  I,  i8oo. 
I  HOPE  by  this  time  you  are  prepared  to  say  the 
"  Falstaff's  Letters  "  are  a  bundle  of  the  sharpest, 
queerest,  profoundest  humors  of  any  these  juice- 
drained  latter  times  have  spawned.  I  should  have 
advertised  you  that  the  meaning  is  frequently  hard 
to  be  got  at,  —  and  so  are  the  future  guineas  that 
now  lie  ripening  and  aurifying  in  the  womb  of  some 
undiscovered  Potosi ;  but  dig,  dig,  dig,  dig.  Man- 
ning !  I  set  to  with  an  unconquerable  propulsion  to 
write,  with  a  lamentable  want  of  what  to  write.  My 
private  goings  on  are  orderly  as  the  movements  of 
the  spheres,  and  stale  as  their  music  to  angels'  ears. 
Public  affairs,  except  as  they  touch  upon  me,  and 
so  turn  into  private,  I  cannot  whip  up  my  mind  to 
feel  any  interest  in.  I  grieve,  indeed,  that  War 
and  Nature  and  Mr.  Pitt,  that  hangs  up  in  Lloyd's 
best  parlour,  should  have  conspired  to  call  up  three 

1  To  this  remarkable  person  we  are  largely  indebted  for 
some  of  the  best  of  Lamb's  letters.  He  was  mathematical 
tutor  at  Caius  College,  Cambridge,  and  in  later  years  be- 
came somewhat  famous  as  an  explorer  of  the  remoter  parts 
of  China  and  Thibet.  Lamb  had  been  introduced  to  him, 
during  a  Cambridge  visit,  by  Charles  Lloyd,  and  afterwards 
told  Crabb  Robinson  that  he  was  the  most  "  wonderful  man  " 
he  ever  met.  An  account  of  Manning  will  be  found  in  the 
memoir  prefixed  to  his  "Journey  to  Lhasa,"  in  1S11-12. 
(George  Bogle  and  Thomas  Manning's  Journey  to  Thibet  and 
Lhasa,  by  C.  R.  Markham,  1876.) 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  1 07 

necessaries,  simple  commoners  as  our  fathers  knew 
them,  into  the  upper  house  of  luxuries,  —  bread  and 
beer  and  coals,  Manning.  But  as  to  France  and 
Frenchmen,  and  the  Abbe  Sieyes  and  his  constitu- 
tions, I  cannot  make  these  present  times  present  to 
me.  I  read  histories  of  the  past,  and  I  live  in 
them ;  although,  to  abstract  senses,  they  are  far  less 
momentous  than  the  noises  which  keep  Europe 
awake.  I  am  reading  Burnet's  "  Own  Times."  Did 
you  ever  read  that  garrulous,  pleasant  history?  He 
tells  his  story  like  an  old  man,  past  political  ser\'ice, 
bragging  to  his  sons  on  winter  evenings  of  the  part 
he  took  in  public  transactions  when  "  his  old  cap 
was  new."  Full  of  scandal,  which  all  true  history  is. 
No  palliatives ;  but  all  the  stark  wickedness  that 
actually  gives  the  momentum  to  national  actors. 
Quite  the  prattle  of  age  and  outlived  importance. 
Truth  and  sincerity  staring  out  upon  you  perpetually 
in  alto  relievo.  Himself  a  party  man,  he  makes 
you  a  party  man.  None  of  the  cursed  philosophi- 
cal Humeian  indifference,  so  cold  and  unnatural 
and  inhuman  !  None  of  the  cursed  Gibbonian  fine 
writing,  so  fine  and  composite.  None  of  Dr.  Rob- 
ertson's periods  with  three  members.  Noneof]\Ir. 
Roscoe's  sage  remarks,  all  so  apposite,  and  coming 
in  so  clever,  lest  the  reader  should  have  had  the 
trouble  of  drawing  an  inference.  Burnet's  good 
old  prattle  I  can  bring  present  to  my  mind  ;  I  can 
make  the  Revolution  present  to  me  :  the  French 
Revolution,  by  a  converse  per\'ersity  in  my  nature, 
I  fling  as  far  from  me.  To  quit  this  tiresome  sub- 
ject, and  to  relieve  you  from  two  or  three  dismal 


/ 
lo8  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

yawns,  which  I  hear  in  spirit,  I  here  conclude  my 
more  than  commonly  obtuse  letter,  —  dull  up  to  the 
dulness  of  a  Dutch  commentator  on  Shakspeare. 
My  love  to  Lloyd  and  Sophia. 

C.  L. 

XX. 

TO    COLERIDGE. 

May  12,  1800. 

My  dear  Coleridge,  —  I  don't  know  why  I  write, 
except  from  the  propensity  misery  has  to  tell  her 
griefs.  Hetty  ^  died  on  Friday  night,  about  eleven 
o'clock,  after  eight  days'  illness ;  Mary,  in  conse- 
quence of  fatigue  and  anxiety,  is  fallen  ill  again,  and 
I  was  obliged  to  remove  her  yesterday.  I  am  left 
alone  in  a  house  with  nothing  but  Hetty's  dead 
body  to  keep  me  company.  To-morrow  I  bury  her, 
and  then  I  shall  be  quite  alone,  with  nothing  but  a 
cat  to  remind  me  that  the  house  has  been  full  of 
living  beings  like  myself.  My  heart  is  quite  sunk, 
and  I  don't  know  where  to  look  for  relief.  Mary 
will  get  better  again  ;  but  her  constantly  being  liable 
to  such  relapses  is  dreadful ;  nor  is  it  the  least  of 
our  evils  that  her  case  and  all  our  story  is  so  well 
known  around  us.  We  are  in  a  manner  marked. 
Excuse  my  troubling  you  ;  but  I  have  nobody  by  me 
to  speak  to  me.  I  slept  out  last  night,  not  being 
able  to  endure  the  change  and  the  stillness.  But  I 
did  not  sleep  well,  and  I  must  come  back  to  my 
own  bed.  I  am  going  to  try  and  get  a  friend  to 
^  The  Lambs'  old  servant. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  109 

come  and  be  with  me  to-morrow.  I  am  completely 
shipwrecked.  My  head  is  quite  bad.  I  almost 
wish  that  Mary  were  dead.  God  bless  you.  Love 
to  Sara  and  Hartley. 

C.  Lamb. 


XXL 

TO  MANNING. 

Before  Jtme,  1800. 

Dear  M.\nning,  —  I  feel  myself  unable  to  thank 
you  sufficiently  for  your  kind  letter.  It  was  doubly 
acceptable  to  me,  both  for  the  choice  poetry  and 
the  kind,  honest  prose  which  it  [contained.  It  was 
just  such  a  letter  as  I  should  have  expected  from 
Manning. 

I  am  in  much  better  spirits  than  when  I  wrote 
last.  I  have  had  a  very  eligible  offer  to  lodge  with 
a  friend  in  town.  He  will  have  rooms  to  let  at  mid- 
summer, by  which  time  I  hope  my  sister  will  be  well 
enough  to  join  me.  It  is  a  great  object  to  me  to 
live  in  town,  where  we  shall  be  much  more  private, 
and  to  quit  a  house  and  neighborhood  where  poor 
Mary's  disorder,  so  frgcjuentjy  recurring,  has  made 
us  a  sort  of  marked  people.  We  can  ^e  nowhere 
private  except  in  the  midst  of  London.  We  shall 
be  in  a  family  where  we  visit  very  frequently ;  only 
my  landlord  and  I  have  not  yet  come  to  a  conclu- 
sion. He  has  a  partner  to  consult.  I  am  still 
on  the  tremble,  for  I  do  not  know  where  we  could 
go  into  lodgings  that  would  not  be,  in  many  re- 
spects, highly  exceptionable.     Only  God  send  Mary 


4- 


no  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

well  again,  and  I  hope  all  will  be  well !  The  pros- 
pect, such  as  it  is,  has  made  me  quite  happy.  I 
have  just  time  to  tell  you  of  it,  as  I  know  it  will  give 

you  pleasure.  Farewell. 

C.  Lamb. 


XXII. 

TO  COLERIDGE. 

August,  6,  1800. 
Dear  Coleridge,  —  I  have  taken  to-day  and 
delivered  to  Longman  and  Co.,  Imprimis :  your 
books,  viz.,  three  ponderous  German  dictiona- 
ries, one  volume  (I  can  find  no  more)  of  German 
and  French  ditto,  sundry  other  German  books  un- 
bound, as  you  left  them,  Percy's  Ancient  Poetry, 
and  one  volume  of  Anderson's  Poets.  I  specify 
them,  that  you  may  not  lose  any.  Secimdo :  a 
dressing-gown  (value,  fivepence),  in  which  you  used 
to  sit  and  look  like  a  conjuror  when  you  were 
translating  "  Wallenstein."  A  case  of  two  razors 
and  a  shaving-box  and  strap.  This  it  has  cost  me  a 
severe  struggle  to  part  with.  They  are  in  a  brown- 
paper  parcel,  which  also  contains  sundry  papers 
and  poems,  sermons,  some  few  Epic  poems,  —  one 
about  Cain  and  Abel,  which  came  from  Poole, 
etc.,  and  also  your  tragedy ;  with  one  or  two  small 
German  books,  and  that  drama  in  which  Got-fader 
performs.  Tertio :  a  small  oblong  box  containing 
all  your  letters,  collected  from  all  your  waste  papers, 
and  which  fill  the  said  little  box.     All  other  waste 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  m 

papers,  which  I  judged  worth  sending,  are  in  the 
paper  parcel  aforesaid.  But  you  will  find  all  your 
letters  in  the  box  by  themselves.  Thus  have  I  dis- 
charged my  conscience  and  my  lumber-room  of  all 
your  property,  save  and  except  a  folio  entitled 
Tyrrell's  "  Bibliotheca  Politica,"  which  you  used  to 
learn  your  politics  out  of  when  you  wrote  for  the  Post, 
—  mutatis  mutandis,  i.  e.,  applying  past  inferences 
to  modern  data.  I  retain  that,  because  I  am  sensi- 
ble I  am  very  deficient  in  the  politics  myself;  and  I 
have  torn  up  —  don't  be  angry;  waste  paper  has 
risen  forty  per  cent,  and  I  can't  afford  to  buy  it  — 
all  Bonaparte's  Letters,  Arthur  Young's  Treatise 
on  Corn,  and  one  or  two  more  light-armed  infantry, 
which  I  thought  better  suited  the  flippancy  of  Lon- 
don discussion  than  the  dignity  of  Keswick  thinking. 
Mary  says  you  will  be  in  a  passion  about  them  when 
you  come  to  miss  them  ;  but  you  must  study  philoso- 
phy. Read  Albertus  Magnus  de  Chartis  Amissis 
five  times  over  after  phlebotomizing, — 'tis  Burton's 
recipe,  —  and  then  be  angry  with  an  absent  friend  if 
you  can.  Sara  is  obscure.  Am  I  to  understand  by 
her  letter  that  she  sends  a  kiss  to  Eliza  Bucking- 
ham? Pray  tell  your  wife  that  a  note  of  interro- 
gation on  the  superscription  of  a  letter  is  highly 
ungrammatical  !  She  proposes  writing  my  name 
Lambe?  Lamb  is  quite  enough.  I  have  had  the 
Anthology,  and  like  only  one  thing  in  it,  — Lewti  ;  but 
of  that  the  last  stanza  is  detestable,  the  rest  most 
exquisite  !  The  epithet  enviable  would  dash  the 
finest  poem.  For  God's  sake  (I  never  was  more 
serious),    don't   make   me  ridiculous  any  more  by 


112  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

terming  me  gentle-hearted  in  print,  or  do  it  in 
better  verses.-'  It  did  well  enough  five  years  ago, 
when  I  came  to  see  you,  and  was  moral  coxcomb 
enough  at  the  time  you  wrote  the  lines,  to  feed  upon 
such  epithets ;  but,  besides  that,  the  meaning  of 
"gentle"  is  equivocal  at  best,  and  almost  always 
means  "  poor-spirited  ;  "  the  very  quality  of  gentle- 
ness is  abhorrent  to  such  vile  trumpetings.  My 
sentiment  is  long  since  vanished.  I  hope  my  virtues 
have  done  sucking.  I  can  scarce  think  but  you 
meant  it  in  joke.  I  hope  you  did,  for  I  should 
be  ashamed  to  think  you  could  think  to  gratify  me 
by  such  praise,  fit  only  to  be  a  cordial  to  some  green- 
sick  sonneteer. 


XXIII. 

TO  MANNING. 

August,  iSoo. 

Dear  Manning, — I  am  going  to  ask  a  favor  of 
you,  and  am  at  a  loss  how  to  do  it  in  the  most  deli- 
cate manner.  For  this  purpose  I  have  been  looking 
into  Pliny's  Letters,  who  is  noted  to  have  had  the 
best  grace  in  begging  of  all  the  ancients  (I  read 
him  in  the  elegant  translation  of  Mr.  Melmoth)  ;  but 
not  finding  any  case  there  exactly  similar  with  mine, 
I  am  constrained  to  beg  in  my  own  barbarian  way. 
To  come  to  the  point,  then,  and  hasten  into  the 

1  An  allusion  to  Coleridge's  lines,  "  This  Lime-Tree  Bower 
my  Prison,"  wherein  he  styles  Lamb  "my  gentle-hearted 
Charles." 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  113 

middle  of  thin^,  have  you  a  copy  of  your  Algebra  ^  Wy  , 
to  give  away?  /I  do  not  ask  it  for  myself;  I  have 
too  much  reverence  for  the  Black  Arts  ever  to  ap- 
proach thy  circle,  illustrious  Trismegist  !  But  that 
worthy  man  and  excellent  poet,  George  Dyer,  made 
me  a  visit  yesternight  on  purpose  to  borrow  one, 
supposing,  rationally  enough,  I  must  say,  that  you 
had  made  me  a  present  of  one  before  this ;  the 
omission  of  which  I  take  to  have  proceeded  only 
from  negligence  :  but  it  is  a  fault.  I  could  lend 
him  no  assistance.  You  must  know  he  is  just  now 
diverted  from  the  pursuit  of  Bell  Letters  by  a  par- 
adox, which  he  has  heard  his  friend  Frend  ^  (that 
learned  mathematician)  maintain,  that  the  negative 
quantities  of  mathematicians  were  merce  7iiigce,  — 
things  scarcely  i7i  rerum  naturd,  and  smacking  too 
much  of  mystery  for  gentlemen  of  Mr.  Frend's  clear 
Unitarian  capacity.  However,  the  dispute,  once  set 
a-going,  has  seized  violently  on  George's  pericranick ; 
and  it  is  necessary  for  his  health  that  he  should 
speedily  come  to  a  resolution  of  his  doubts.  He 
goes  about  teasing  his  friends  with  his  new  mathe- 
matics;  he  even  frantically  talks  of  purchasing 
Manning's  Algebra,  which  shows  him  far  gone,  for, 
to  my  knowledge,  he  has  not  been  master  of  seven 

shillings  a  good  time.     George's  pockets  and 's 

brains  are  two  things  in  nature  which  do  not  abhor 
a  vacuum.  .  .  .     Now,  if  you  could  step  in,  in  this 

^  Manning,   while    at    Cambridge,    published    a  work  on 
Algebra. 

^  The  Rev.  William  Frend,  who  was  expelled  from  Cam- 
bridge for  Unitarianism. 

8 


114  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

trembling  suspense  of  his  reason,  and  he  should  find 
on  Saturday  morning,  lying  for  him  at  the  Porter's 
Lodge,  Clifford's  Inn,  —  his  safest  address,  —  Man- 
ning's Algebra,  with  a  neat  manuscriptum  in  the 
blank  leaf,  running  thus,  '•  From  the  Author  !  "  it 
might  save  his  wits  and  restore  the  unhappy  author 
to  those  studies  of  poetry  and  criticism  which  are 
at  present  suspended,  to  the  infinite  regret  of  the 
whole  literary  world.  N.  B.  —  Dirty  books,  smeared 
leaves,  and  dogs'  ears  will  be  rather  a  recommenda- 
tion than  otherwise.  N.  B.  —  He  must  have  the 
book  as  soon  as  possible,  or  nothing  can  withhold 
him  from  madly  purchasing  the  book  on  tick.  .  .  . 
Then  shall  we  see  him  sweetly  restored  to  the  chair 
of  Longinus,  —  to  dictate  in  smooth  and  modest 
phrase  the  laws  of  verse ;  to  prove  that  Theocritus 
first  introduced  the  Pastoral,  and  Virgil  and  Pope 
brought  it  to  its  perfection ;  that  Gray  and  Mason 
(who  always  hunt  in  couples  in  George's  brain)  have 
shown  a  great  deal  of  poetical  fire  in  their  lyric  poetry ; 
that  Aristotle's  rules  are  not  to  be  servilely  followed, 
which  George  has  shown  to  have  imposed  great 
shackles  upon  modern  genius.  His  poems,  I  find, 
are  to  consist  of  two  vols.,  reasonable  octavo  ;  and 
a  third  book  will  exclusively  contain  criticisms,  in 
which  he  asserts  he  has  gone  pretty  deeply  into  the 
laws  of  blank  verse  and  rhyme,  epic  poetry,  dra- 
matic and  pastoral  ditto,  —  all  which  is  to  come  out 
before  Christmas.  But  above  all  he  has  touched 
most  deeply  upon  the  Drama,  comparing  the  English 
with  the  modern  German  stage,  their  merits  and 
defects.      Apprehending   that    his    studies    (not    to 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  115 

mention  his  ///;■/;,  which  I  take  to  be  chiefly  towards 
the  lyrical  poetry)  hardly  qualified  him  for  these 
disquisitions,  I  modestly  inquired  what  plays  he  had 
read.  I  found  by  George's  reply  that  he  had  read 
Shakspeare,  but  that  was  a  good  while  since  :  he 
calls  him  a  great  but  irregular  genius,  which  I  think 
to  be  an  original  and  just  remark.  (Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  Massinger,  Ben  Jonson,  Shirley,  Marlowe, 
Ford,  and  the  worthies  of  Dodsley's  Collection,  — 
he  confessed  he  had  read  none  of  them,  but  pro- 
fessed his  intention  of  looking  through  them  all,  so 
as  to  be  able  to  touch  upon  them  in  his  book.) 
So  Shakspeare,  Otway,  and  I  believe  Rowe,  to  whom 
he  was  naturally  directed  by  Johnson's  Lives,  and 
these  not  read  lately,  are  to  stand  him  in  stead  of  a 
general  knowledge  of  the  subject.  God  bless  his 
dear  absurd  head  ! 

By  the  by,  did  I  not  v/rite  you  a  letter  with  some- 
thing about  an  invitation  in  it  ?  —  but  let  that  pass  ; 
I  suppose  it  is  not  agreeable. 

N.  B.  It  would  not  be  amiss  if  you  were  to  ac- 
company your //rj-^;?/ with  a  dissertation  on  negative 
quantities. 

C.  L. 

XXIV. 

TO  MANNING. 

1800. 

George  Dyer  is  an  Archimedes  and  an  Archi- 
magus  and  a  Tycho  Brah6  and  a  Copernicus ;  and 
thou  art  the  darling  of  the  Nine,  and  midwife  to 


Il6  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

their  wandering  babe  also  !  We  take  tea  with  that 
learned  poet  and  critic  on  Tuesday  night,  at  half- 
past  five,  in  his  neat  library ;  the  repast  will  be  light 
and  Attic,  v/ith  criticism.  If  thou  couldst  contrive 
to  wheel  up  thy  dear  carcase  on  the  Monday,  and 
after  dining  with  us  on  tripe,  calves'  kidneys,  or 
whatever  else  the  Cornucopia  of  St.  Clare  may  be 
willing  to  pour  out  on  the  occasion,  might  we  not 
adjourn  together  to  the  Heathen's,  thou  with  thy 
Black  Backs,  and  I  with  some  innocent  volume  of 
the  Bell  Letters,  —  Shenstone,  or  the  like ;  it  would 
make  him  wash  his  old  flannel  gown  (that  has  not 
been  washed,  to  my  knowledge,  since  it  has  been  his, 
—  Oh,  the  long  time  !)  with  tears  of  joy.  Thou 
shouldst  settle  his  scruples,  and  unravel  his  cobwebs, 
and  sponge  off  the  sad  stuff  that  weighs  upon  his 
dear  wounded  pia  mater  ;  thou  shouldst  restore  light 
to  his  eyes,  and  him  to  his  friends  and  the  public  ; 
Parnassus  should  shower  her  civic  crowns  upon  thee 
for  saving  the  wits  of  a  citizen  !  I  thought  I  saw  a 
lucid  interval  in  George  the  other  night :  he  broke 
in  upon  my  studies  just  at  tea-time,  and  brought  with 
him  Dr.  Anderson,  an  old  gentleman  who  ties  his 
breeches'  knees  with  packthread,  and  boasts  that  he 
has  been  disappointed  by  ministers.  The  Doctor 
wanted  to  see  7ne ;  for,  I  being  a  poet,  he  thought  I 
might  furnish  him  with  a  copy  of  verses  to  suit  his 
"  Agricultural  Magazine."  The  Doctor,  in  the  course 
of  the  conversation,  mentioned  a  poem,  called  the 
"  Epigoniad,"  by  one  Wilkie,  an  epic  poem,  in  which 
there  is  not  one  tolerable  good  line  all  through,  but 
every  incident  and  speech  borrowed  from  Homer. 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  117 

George  had  been  sitting  inattentive  seemingly  to 
what  was  going  on,  —  hatching  of  negative  quantities, 
—  when,  suddenly,  the  name  of  his  old  friend  Ho- 
mer stung  his  pericranicks,  and,  jumping  up,  he 
begged  to  know  where  he  could  meet  with  Wilkie's 
work.  "  It  was  cxcurious  fact  that  there  should  be 
such  an  epic  poem  and  he  not  know  of  it ;  and  he 
must  get  a  copy  of  it,  as  he  was  going  to  touch  pretty 
deeply  upon  the  subject  of  the  epic,  —  and  he  was  sure 
there  must  be  some  things  good  in  a  poem  of  eight 
thousand  lines!  "  I  was  pleased  with  this  transient 
return  of  his  reason  and  recurrence  to  his  old  ways 
of  thinking ;  it  gave  me  great  hopes  of  a  recovery, 
which  nothing  but  your  book  can  completely  insure. 
Pray  come  on  Monday  if  you  can,  and  stay  your 
own  time.  I  have  a  good  large  room,  with  two  beds 
in  it,  in  the  handsomest  of  which  thou  shalt  repose 
a-nights,  and  dream  of  spheroides.  I  hope  you  will 
understand  by  the  nonsense  of  this  letter  that  I  am 
not  melancholy  at  the  thoughts  of  thy  coming ;  I 
thought  it  necessary  to  add  this,  because  you  love 
precision.  Take  notice  that  our  stay  at  Dyer's  will 
not  exceed  eight  o'clock,  after  which  our  pursuits 
will  be  our  own.  But  indeed  I  think  a  little  recrea- 
tion among  the  Bell  Letters  and  poetry  will  do  you 
some  service  in  the  interval  of  severer  studies.  I 
hope  we  shall  fully  discuss  with  George  Dyer  what  I 
have  never  yet  heard  done  to  my  satisfaction,  —  the 
reason  of  Dr.  Johnson's  malevolent  strictures  on  the 
higher  species  of  the  Ode. 

C.  Lamb. 


Il8  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


XXV. 

TO  COLERIDGE. 

August  14,  iSoo. 

My  head  is  playing  all  the  tunes  in  the  world, 
ringing  such  peals  !  It  has  just  finished  the  "  Merry 
Christ  Church  Bells,"  and  absolutely  is  beginning 
"  Turn  again,  Whittington."  Buz,  buz,  buz  ;  bum, 
bum,  bum  ;  wheeze,  wheeze,  wheeze  ;  fen,  fen,  fen  ; 
tinky,  tinky,  tinky  ;  cr'annch.  I  shall  certainly  come 
to  be  condemned  at  last.  I  have  been  drinking  too 
much  for  two  days  running.  I  find  my  moral  sense 
in  the  last  stage  of  a  consumption,  and  my  religion 
getting  faint.  This  is  disheartening,  but  I  trust  the 
devil  will  not  overpower  me.  In  the  midst  of  this 
infernal  torture  Conscience  is  barking  and  yelping 
as  loud  as  any  of  them.  I  have  sat  down  to  read 
over  again,  and  I  think  I  do  begin  to  spy  out  some- 
thing with  beauty  and  design  in  it.  I  perfectly  ac- 
cede to  all  your  alterations,  and  only  desire  that  you 
had  cut  deeper,  when  your  hand  was  in. 

Now  I  am  on  the  subject  of  poetry,  I  must  an- 
nounce to  you,  who,  doubtless,  in  your  remote  part 
of  the  island,  have  not  heard  tidings  of  so  great  a 
blessing,  that  George  Dyer  hath  prepared  two  pon- 
derous volumes  full  of  poetry  and  criticism.  They 
impend  over  the  town,  and  are  threatened  to  fall  in 
the  winter.  The  first  volume  contains  every  sort  of 
poetry  except  personal  satire,  which  George,  in  his 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  119 

truly  original  prospectus,  renounceth  forever,  whim- 
sically foisting  the  intention  in  between  the  price 
of  his  book  and  the  proposed  number  of  subscribers. 
(If  I  can,  I  will  get  you  a  copy  of  his  handbill.^  He 
has  tried  his  vein  in  every  species  besides,  —  the 
Spenserian,  Thomsonian,  Masonic,  and  Akensidish 
more  especially.  The  second  volume  is  all  criti- 
cism ;  wherein  he  demonstrates  to  the  entire  satis- 
faction of  the  literary  world,  in  a  way  that  must 
silence  all  reply  forever,  that  the  pastoral  was  intro- 
duced by  Theocritus  and  polished  by  Virgil  and 
Pope  ;  that  Gray  and  Mason  (who  always  hunt  in 
couples  in  George's  brain)  have  a  good  deal  of  poet- 
ical fire  and  true  lyric  genius ;  that  Cowley  was 
ruined  by  excess  of  wit  (a  warning  to  all  moderns)  ; 
that  Charles  Lloyd,  Charles  Lamb,  and  William 
Wordsworth,  in  later  days,  have  struck  the  true 
chords  of  poesy.  Oh,  George,  George,  with  a  head 
uniformly  wrong  and  a  heart  uniformly  right,  that  I 
had  power  and  might  equal  to  my  wishes ;  then 
would  I  call  the  gentry  of  thy  native  island,  and 
they  should  come  in  troops,  flocking  at  the  sound 
of  thy  prospectus-trumpet,  and  crowding  who  shall 
be  first  to  stand  in  thy  list  of  subscribers  !  I  can 
only  put  twelve  shillings  into  thy  pocket  (which,  I 
will  answer  for  them,  will  not  stick  there  long)  out 
of  a  pocket  almost  as  bare  as  thine.  Is  it  not  a  pity 
so  much  fine  writing  should  be  erased?  But,  to  tell 
the  truth,  I  began  to  scent  that  I  was  getting  into 
that  sort  of  style  which  Longinus  and  Dionysius 
Halicarnassus  fitly  call  "  the  affected." 

C.  L. 


120  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

XXVI. 

TO  MANNING. 

August  22,  1800. 

Dear  Manning, — You  need  not  imagine  any 
apology  necessary.  Your  fine  hare  and  fine  birds 
(which  just  now  are  dangling  by  our  kitchen  blaze) 
discourse  most  eloquent  music  in  your  justification. 
You  just  nicked  my  palate  ;  for,  with  all  due  deco- 
rum and  leave  may  it  be  spoken,  my  worship  hath 
taken  physic  to-day,  and  being  low  and  puling,  re- 
quireth  to  be  pampered.  Foh  !  how  beautifiil  and 
strong  those  buttered  onions  come  to  my  nose  !  For 
you  must  know  we  extract  a  divine  spirit  of  gravy 
from  those  materials  which,  duly  compounded  with 
a  consistence  of  bread  and  cream  (yclept  bread- 
sauce),  each  to  each  giving  double  grace,  do  mu- 
tually illustrate  and  set  off"  (as  skilful  gold-foils  to 
rare  jewels)  your  partridge,  pheasant,  woodcock, 
snipe,  teal,  widgeon,  and  the  other  lesser  daughters 
of  the  ark.  My  friendship,  struggling  with  my  carnal 
and  fleshly  prudence  (which  suggests  that  a  bird  a 
man  is  the  proper  allotment  in  such  cases),  yearneth 
sometimes  to  have  thee  here  to  pick  a  wing  or  so. 
I  question  if  your  Norfolk  sauces  match  our  London 
culinaric. 

George  Dyer  has  introduced  me  to  the  table  of 
an  agreeable  old  gentleman,  Dr.  Anderson,  who  gives 
hot  legs  of  mutton  and  grape  pies  at  his  sylvan 
lodge  at  Isleworth,  where,  in  the  middle  of  a  street, 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  1 21 

he  has  shot  up  a  wall  most  preposterously  before  his 
small  dwelling,  which,  with  the  circumstance  of  his 
taking  several  panes  of  glass  out  of  bedroom  win- 
dows (for  air),causeth  his  neighbors  to  speculate 
strangely  on  the  state  of  the  good  man's  pericra- 
nicks.  Plainly,  he  lives  under  the  reputation  of 
being  deranged.  George  does  not  mind  this  cir- 
cumstance ;  he  rather  likes  him  the  better  for  it. 
The  Doctor,  in  his  pursuits,  joins  agricultural  to  poet- 
ical science,  and  has  set  George's  brains  mad  about 
the  old  Scotch  writers,  Barbour,  Douglas's  ^neid, 
Blind  Harry,  etc.  We  returned  home  in  a  return 
postchaise  (having  dined  with  the  Doctor)  ;  and 
George  kept  wondering  and  wondering,  for  eight  or 
nine  turnpike  miles,  what  was  the  name,  and  striving 
to  recollect  the  name,  of  a  poet  anterior  to  Barbour. 
I  begged  to  know  what  was  remaining  of  his  works. 
"  There  is  nothing  extant  of  his  works,  sir  ;  but  by 
all  accounts  he  seems  to  have  been  a  fine  genius  !  " 
This  fine  genius,  without  anything  to  show  for  it  or 
any  title  beyond  George's  courtesy,  without  even  a 
name,  and  Barbour  and  Douglas  and  Blind  Harry 
now  are  the  predominant  sounds  in  George's  pia 
mater,  and  their  buzzings  exclude  politics,  criticism, 
and  algebra, —  the  late  lords  of  that  illustrious  lum- 
ber-room. Mark,  he  has  never  read  any  of  these 
bucks,  but  is  impatient  till  he  reads  them  all,  at  the 
Doctor's  suggestion.  Poor  Dyer  !  his  friends  should 
be  careful  what  sparks  they  let  fall  into  such  inflam- 
mable matter. 

Could  I  have  my  will  of  the   heathen,  I  would 
lock  him  up  from  all  access  of  new  ideas ;  I  would 


122  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

exclude  all  critics  that  would  not  swear  me  first 
(upon  their  Virgil)  that  they  would  feed  him  with 
nothing  but  the  old,  safe,  familiar  notions  and  sounds 
(the  rightful  aborigines  of  his  brain), —  Gray,  Aken- 
side,  and  Mason.  In  these  sounds,  reiterated  as 
often  as  possible,  there  could  be  nothing  painful, 
nothing  distracting. 

God  bless  me,  here  are  the  birds,  smoking  hot ! 

All  that  is  gross  and  unspiritual  in  me  rises  at  the 
sight  ! 

Avaunt  friendship  and  all  memory  of  absent 
friends ! 

C.  Lamb. 

XXVII. 

TO  COLERIDGE. 

August  26,  1800. 

George  Dyer  is  the  only  literary  character  I  am 
happily  acquainted  with.  The  oftener  I  see  him, 
the  more  deeply  I  admire  him.  He  is  goodness 
itself.  If  I  could  but  calculate  the  precise  date  of 
his  death,  I  would  write  a  novel  on  purpose  to  make 
George  the  hero.     I  could  hit  him  off  to  a  hair. 

George  brought  a  Dr.  Anderson  ^  to  see  me.  The 
Doctor  is  a  very  pleasant  old  man,  a  great  genius 
for  agriculture,  one  that  ties  his  breeches-knees  with 
packthread,  and  boasts  of  having  had  disappoint- 
ments from  ministers.  The  Doctor  happened  to 
mention  an  epic  poem  by  one  Wilkie,  called  the 

1  See  preceding  Letter. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  123 

"  Epigoniad,"  in  which  he  assured  us  there  is  not 
one  tolerable  line  from  beginning  to  end,  but  all 
the  characters,  incidents,  etc.,  verbally  copied  from 
Homer.  George,  who  had  been  sitting  quite  inat- 
tentive to  the  Doctor's  criticism,  no  sooner  heard 
the  sound  of  Homer  strike  his  pericraniks,  than  up 
he  gets,  and  declares  he  must  see  that  poem  imme- 
diately :  where  was  it  to  be  had?  An  epic  poem  of 
eight  thousand  lines,  and  he  not  hear  of  it  !  There 
must  be  some  things  good  in  it,  and  it  was  necessary 
he  should  see  it,  for  he  had  touched  pretty  deeply 
upon  that  subject  in  his  criticisms  on  the  Epic. 
George  had  touched  pretty  deeply  upon  the  Lyric, 
I  find ;  he  has  also  prepared  a  dissertation  on  the 
Drama,  and  the  comparison  of  the  English  and  Ger- 
man theatres.  As  I  rather  doubted  his  competency 
to  do  the  latter,  knowing  that  his  peculiar  turn  lies 
in  the  lyric  species  of  composition,  I  questioned 
George  what  English  plays  he  had  read.  I  found 
that  he  had  read  Shakspeare  (whom  he  calls  an 
original,  but  irregular,  genius),  but  it  was  a  good 
while  ago  ;  and  he  has  dipped  into  Rowe  and  Ot- 
w^ay,  I  suppose  having  found  their  names  in  John- 
son's Lives  at  full  length  ;  and  upon  this  slender 
ground  he  has  undertaken  the  task.  He  never 
seemed  even  to  have  heard  of  Fletcher,  Ford,  Mar- 
lowe, Massinger,  and  the  worthies  of  Dodsley's  Col- 
lection ;  but  he  is  to  read  all  these,  to  prepare  him 
for  bringing  out  his  "  Parallel  "  in  the  winter.  I 
find  he  is  also  determined  to  vindicate  poetry  from 
the  shackles  which  Aristotle  and  some  others  have 
imposed  upon  it,  —  which  is  very  good-natured  of 


124  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

him,  and  very  necessary  just  now  !  Now  I  am 
touching  so  deeply  upon  poetry,  can  I  forget  that 
I  have  just  received  from  Cottle  a  magnificent  copy 
of  his  Guinea  Epic.^  Four-and-twenty  books  to 
read  in  the  dog  days  !  I  got  as  far  as  the  Mad 
Monk  the  first  day,  and  fainted.  Mr.  Cottle's 
genius  strongly  points  him  to  the  Pastoral,  but  his 
inclinations  divert  him  perpetually  from  his  calling. 
He  imitates  Southey,  as  Rowe  did  Shakspeare,  with 
his  "  Good  morrow  to  ye,  good  master  Lieutenant." 
Instead  of  a  man,  a  woman,  a  daughter,  he  con- 
stantly writes  "  one  a  man,"  "  one  a  woman,"  "  one 
his  daughter."  Instead  of  the  king,  the  hero,  he 
constantly  writes,  "  he  the  king,"  "he  the  hero,"  — 
two  flowers  of  rhetoric  palpably  from  the  ''Joan." 
But  Mr.  Cottle  soars  a  higher  pitch ;  and  when  he 
is  original,  it  is  in  a  most  original  way  indeed. 
His  terrific  scenes  are  indefatigable.  Serpents,  asps, 
spiders,  ghosts,  dead  bodies,  staircases  made  of  noth- 
ing, with  adders'  tongues  for  bannisters,  —  Good 
Heaven,  what  a  brain  he  must  have  !  He  puts  as 
many  plums  in  his  pudding  as  my  grandmother 
used  to  do ;  and  then  his  emerging  from  Hell's 
horrors  into  light,  and  treading  on  pure  flats  of  this 
earth  —  for   twenty-three  books  together ! 

C.L. 


1  Alfred. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  125 

XXVIII. 

TO  COLERIDGE. 

October  9,  iSoo. 
I  SUPPOSE  you  have  heard  of  the  death  of  Amos 
Cottle.  I  paid  a  solemn  visit  of  condolence  to  his 
brother,  accompanied  by  George  Dyer,  of  burlesque 
memory.  I  went,  trembling,  to  see  poor  Cottle  so 
immediately  upon  the  event.  He  was  in  black, 
and  his  younger  brother  was  also  in  black.  Every- 
thing wore  an  aspect  suitable  to  the  respect  due  to 
the  freshly  dead.  For  some  time  after  our  entrance, 
nobody  spake,  till  George  modestly  put  in  a  question, 
whether  "  Alfred "  was  likely  to  sell.  This  was 
Lethe  to  Cottle,  and  his  poor  face  wet  with  tears, 
and  his  kind  eye  brightened  up  in  a  moment.  Now 
I  felt  it  was  my  cue  to  speak.  I  had  to  thank  him 
for  a  present  of  a  magnificent  copy,  and  had  prom- 
ised to  send  him  my  remarks,  —  the  least  thing  I 
could  do ;  so  I  ventured  to  suggest  that  I  per- 
ceived a  considerable  improvement  he  had  made  in 
his  first  book  since  the  state  in  which  he  first  read  it 
to  me.  Joseph,  who  till  now  had  sat  with  his  knees 
cowering  in  by  the  fireplace,  wheeled  about,  and 
with  great  difficulty  of  body  shifted  the  same  round 
to  the  corner  of  a  table  where  I  was  sitting,  and 
first  stationing  one  thigh  over  the  other,  which  is 
his  sedentary  mood,  and  placidly  fixing  his  benevo- 
lent face  right  against  mine,  waited  my  observations. 
At  that  moment  it  came  strongly  into  my  mind  that 


126  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

I  had  got  Uncle  Toby  before  me,  he  looked  so 
kind  and  so  good.  I  could  not  say  an  unkind  thing 
of  "  Alfred."  So  I  set  my  memory  to  work  to  recol- 
lect what  was  the  name  of  Alfred's  queen,  and  with 
some  adroitness  recalled  the  well-known  sound  to 
Cottle's  ears  of  Alswitha.  At  that  moment  I  could 
perceive  that  Cottle  had  forgot  his  brother  was  so 
lately  become  a  blessed  spirit.  In  the  language  of 
mathematicians,  the  author  was  as  9,  the  brother 
as  I.  I  felt  my  cue,  and  strong  pity  working  at 
the  root,  I  went  to  work  and  beslabber'd  "  Alfred  " 
with  most  unqualified  praise,  or  only  qualifying  my 
praise  by  the  occasional  polite  interposition  of  an 
exception  taken  against  trivial  faults,  slips,  and  hu- 
man imperfections,  which,  by  removing  the  appear- 
ance of  insincerity,  did  but  in  truth  heighten  the 
relish.  Perhaps  I  might  have  spared  that  refine- 
ment, for  Joseph  was  in  a  humor  to  hope  and 
believe  all  fhitigs.  What  I  said  was  beautifully  sup- 
ported, corroborated,  and  confirmed  by  the  stu- 
pidity of  his  brother  on  my  left  hand,  and  by 
George  on  my  right,  who  has  an  utter  incapacity  of 
comprehending  that  there  can  be  anything  bad  in 
poetry.  All  poems  are  good  poems  to  George ;  all 
men  are  fine  geniuses.  So  what  with  my  actual 
memory,  of  w^hich  I  made  the  most,  and  Cottle's 
own  helping  me  out,  for  I  really  had  forgotten  a 
good  deal  of  "  Alfred,"  I  made  shift  to  discuss  the 
most  essential  parts  entirely  to  the  satisfaction  of  its 
author,  who  repeatedly  declared  that  he  loved  noth- 
ing better  than  candid  criticism.  Was  I  a  candid 
greyhound  now  for  all  this?  or  did  I  do  right?     I 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  127 

believe  I  did.  The  effect  was  luscious  to  my  con- 
science. For  all  the  rest  of  the  evening  Amos  was 
no  more  heard  of,  till  George  revived  the  subject  by 
inquiring  whether  some  account  should  not  be 
drawn  up  by  the  friends  of  the  deceased  to  be  in- 
serted in  "  Phillips's  Monthly  Obituary ;  "  adding, 
that  Amos  was  estimable  both  for  his  head  and 
heart,  and  would  have  made  a  fine  poet  if  he  had 
lived.  To  the  expediency  of  this  measure  Cottle 
fully  assented,  but  could  not  help  adding  that  he 
always  thought  that  the  qualities  of  his  brother's 
heart  exceeded  those  of  his  head.  I  believe  his 
brother,  when  living,  had  formed  precisely  the  same 
idea  of  him  ;  and  I  apprehend  the  world  will  assent 
to  both  judgments.  I  rather  guess  that  the  broth- 
ers were  poetical  rivals.  I  judged  so  when  I  saw 
them  together.  Poor  Cottle,  I  must  leave  him, 
after  his  short  dream,  to  muse  again  upon  his  poor 
brother,  for  whom  I  am  sure  in  secret  he  will  yet 
shed  many  a  tear.  Now  send  me  in  return  some 
Greta  news, 

C.  L. 

XXIX, 

TO   MANNING. 

October  16,  1800. 

Dear  Manning,  —  Had  you  written  one  week  be- 
fore you  did,  I  certainly  should  have  obeyed  your 
injunction ;  you  should  have  seen  me  before  my 
letter,  I  will  explain  to  you  my  situation.  There 
are  six  of  us  in  one  department.     Two  of  us  (within 


128  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

these  four  days)  are  confined  with  severe  fevers ; 
and  two  more,  who  belong  to  the  Tower  Mihtia, 
expect  to  have  marching  orders  on  Friday.  Now, 
six  are  absolutely  necessary.  I  have  already  asked 
and  obtained  two  young  hands  to  supply  the  loss  of 
the  feverites ;  and  with  the  other  prospect  before 
me,  you  may  believe  I  cannot  decently  ask  leave  of 
absence  for  myself.  All  I  can  promise  (and  I  do 
promise  with  the  sincerity  of  Saint  Peter,  and  the  con- 
trition of  sinner  Peter  if  I  fail)  [is]  that  I  will  come 
the  very  first  spare  week,  and  go  nowhere  till  I  have 
been  at  Cambridge.  No  matter  if  you  are  in  a 
state  of  pupilage  when  I  come  ;  for  I  can  employ 
myself  in  Cambridge  very  pleasantly  in  the  morn- 
ings. Are  there  not  libraries,  halls,  colleges,  books, 
pictures,  statues?  I  wish  you  had  made  London  in 
your  way.  There  is  an  exhibition  quite  uncommon 
in  Europe,  which  could  not  have  escaped  your 
genius,  —  a  live  rattlesnake,  ten  feet  in  length,  and 
the  thickness  of  a  big  leg.  I  went  to  see  it  last 
night  by  candlelight.  We  were  ushered  into  a  room 
very  little  bigger  than  ours  at  Pentonville.  A  man 
and  woman  and  four  boys  live  in  this  room,  joint 
tenants  with  nine  snakes,  most  of  them  such  as  no 
remedy  has  been  discovered  for  their  bite.  We 
walked  into  the  middle,  which  is  formed  by  a  half- 
moon  of  wired  boxes,  all  mansions  oi  snakes,  — whip- 
snakes,  thunder-snakes,  pig-nose- snakes,  American 
vipers,  and  this  monster.  He  lies  curled  up  in 
folds ;  and  immediately  a  stranger  enters  (for  he  is 
used  to  the  family,  and  sees  them  play  at  cards)  he 
set  up  a  rattle  like  a  watchman's  in  London,  or  near 


LETTERS  OE  CHARLES  LAMB.  129 

as  loud,  and  reared  up  a  head,  from  the  midst  of 
these  folds,  like  a  toad,  and  shook  his  head,  and 
showed  every  sign  a  snake  can  show  of  irritation. 
I  had  the  foolish  curiosity  to  strike  the  wires  with 
my  finger,  and  the  devil  flew  at  me  with  his  toad- 
mouth  wide  open  :  the  inside  of  his  mouth  is  quite 
white.  1  had  got  my  finger  away,  nor  could  he 
well  have  bit  me  with  his  big  mouth,  which  would 
have  been  certain  death  in  five  minutes.  But  it 
frightened  me  so  much  that  I  did  not  recover  my 
voice  for  a  minute's  space.  I  forgot,  in  my  fear, 
that  he  was  secured.  You  would  have  forgot  too, 
for  't  is  incredible  how  such  a  monster  can  be  con- 
fined in  small  gauzy-looking  wires.  I  dreamed  of 
snakes  in  the  night.  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  could 
see  it.  He  absolutely  swelled  with  passion  to  the 
bigness  of  a  large  ,thigh.  I  could  not  retreat  with- 
out infringing  on  another  box,  and  just  behind,  a 
little  devil,  not  an  inch  from  my  back,  had  got  his 
nose  out,  with  some  difficulty  and  pain,  quite  through 
the  bars  !  He  was  soon  taught  better  manners. 
All  the  snakes  were  curious,  and  objects  of  terror ; 
but  this  monster,  like  Aaron's  serpent,  swallowed  up 
the  impression  of  the  rest.  He  opened  his  cursed 
mouth,  when  he  made  at  me,  as  wide  as  his  head 
was  broad.  I  hallooed  out  quite  loud,  and  felt 
pains  all  over  my  body  with  the  fright. 

I  have  had  the  felicity  of  hearing  George  Dyer 
read  out  one  book  of  "  The  Farmer's  Boy."  I 
thought  it  rather  childish.  No  doubt,  there  is  orig- 
inality in  it  (which,  in  your  self-taught  geniuses,  is 
a  most  rare  quality,  they  generally  getting  hold  of 
9 


I30  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

some  bad  models  in  a  scarcity  of  books,  and  form- 
ing their  taste  on  them),  but  no  selection.  All  i?, 
described. 

Mind,  I  have  only  heard  read  one  book. 
Yours  sincerely, 

Philo-Snake, 

C.  L. 

XXX. 

TO   MANNING. 

November  3,  iSoo. 
Ecqiiid  meditatur  Ai'chimedes  ?  What  is  Euclid 
doing?  What  has  happened  to  learned  Trismegist? 
Doth  he  take  it  in  ill  part  that  his  humble  friend 
did  not  comply  with  his  courteous  invitation?  Let 
it  suffice,  I  could  not  come.  Are  impossibilities 
nothing? — be  they  abstractions  of  the  intellects, 
or  not  (rather)  most  sharp  and  mortifying  realities? 
nuts  in  the  Will's  mouth  too  hard  for  her  to  crack? 
brick  and  stone  walls  in  her  way,  which  slie  can  by 
no  means  eat  through?  sore  lets,  impedimenta  via- 
?-tim,  no  thoroughfares?  racemi  nimiiim  alte  pen- 
dentes  ?  Is  the  phrase  classic  ?  I  allude  to  the 
grapes  in  ./Esop,  which  cost  the  fox  a  strain,  and 
gained  the  world  an  aphorism.  Observe  the  super- 
scription of  this  letter.  In  adapting  the  size  of  the 
letters  which  constitute  your  name  and  Mr.  Crisp's 
name  respectively,  I  had  an  eye  to  your  different 
stations  in  life.  'T  is  really  curious,  and  must  be 
soothing  to  an  aristocrat.  I  wonder  it  has  never 
been  hit  on  before  my  time.     I  have  made  an  ac- 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  131 

quisition  latterly  of  a  pleasant  hand,  one  Rickman/ 
to  whom  I  was  introduced  by  George  Dyer,  —  not 
the  most  flattering  auspices  under  which  one  man 
can  be  introduced  to  another.  George  brings  all 
sorts  of  people  together,  setting  up  a  sort  of  agra- 
rian law,  or  common  property,  in  matter  of  soci- 
ety ;  but  for  once  he  has  done  me  a  great  pleasure, 
while  he  was  only  pursuing  a  principle,  as  ignes 
fatui  may  light  you  home.  This  Rickman  lives  in 
our  Buildings,  immediately  opposite  our  house ;  the 
finest  fellow  to  drop  in  a'  nights,  about  nine  or  ten 
o'clock,  —  cold  bread-and-cheese  time,  —  just  in 
the  wishing  time  of  the  night,  when  you  wish  for 
somebody  to  come  in,  without  a  distinct  idea  of  a 
probable  anybody.  Just  in  the  nick,  neither  too 
early  to  be  tedious,  nor  too  late  to  sit  a  reasonable 
time.  He  is  a  most  pleasant  hand,  —  a  fine,  rat- 
tling fellow,  has  gone  through  life  laughing  at  sol- 
emn apes ;  himself  hugely  literate,  oppressively  full 
of  information  in  all  stuff  of  conversation,  from  mat- 
ter of  fact  to  Xenophon  and  Plato  ;  can  talk  Greek 
with  Porson,  politics  with  Thelwall,  conjecture  with 
George  Dyer,  nonsense  with  me,  and  anything  with 
anybody ;  a  great  farmer,  somewhat  concerned  in 
an  agricultural  magazine ;  reads  no  poetry  but 
Shakspeare,  very  intimate  with  Southey,  but  never 
reads  his  poetry ;  relishes  George  Dyer,  thoroughly 
penetrates  into  the  ridiculous  wherever  found,  un- 
derstands   the  first   time    (a  great  desideratum  in 

1  John  Rickman,  clerk-assistant  at  the  table  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  an  eminent  statistician,  and  the  intimate  friend 
of  Lamb,  Southey,  and  others  of  their  set 


132  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

common  minds) ,  —  you  need  never  twice  speak 
to  him ;  does  not  want  explanations,  translations, 
limitations,  as  Professor  Godwin  does  when  you 
make  an  assertion ;  up  to  anything,  dow7i  to  every- 
thing, —  whatever  sapit  hoininem.  A  perfect  man. 
All  this  farrago,  which  must  perplex  you  to  read, 
and  has  put  me  to  a  little  trouble  to  select,  only 
proves  how  impossible  it  is  to  describe  a  pleasant 
hand.  You  must  see  Rickman  to  know  him,  for  he 
is  a  species  in  one,  —  a  new  class ;  an  exotic,  any 
slip  of  which  I  am  proud  to  put  in  my  garden-pot. 
The  clearest-headed  fellow ;  fullest  of  matter,  with 
least  verbosity.  If  there  be  any  alloy  in  my  fortune 
to  have  met  with  such  a  man,  it  is  that  he  com- 
monly divides  his  time  between  town  and  country, 
having  some  foolish  family  ties  at  Christchurch,  by 
which  means  he  can  only  gladden  our  London 
hemisphere  with  returns  of  light.  He  is  now  going 
for  six  weeks. 


XXXI. 

TO   MANNING. 

Nmember  28,  1800 
Dear  Manning,  —  I  have  received  a  very  kind 
invitation  from  Lloyd  and  Sophia  to  go  and  spend 
a  month  with  them  at  the  Lakes.  Now,  it  fortu- 
nately happens  (which  is  so  seldom  the  case)  that 
I  have  spare  cash  by  me  enough  to  answer  the 
expenses  of  so  long  a  journey ;  and  I  am  deter- 
mined to  get  away  from  the  office  by  some  means. 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  133 

The  purpose  of  this  letter  is  to  request  of  you  (my 
dear  friend)  that  you  will  not  take  it  unkind  if  I 
decline  my  proposed  visit  to  Cambridge  for  the 
present.  Perhaps  I  shall  be  aUe  to  take  Cambridge 
in  my  way,  going  or  coming.  (  I  need  not  describe 
to  you  the  expectations  which  such  an  one  as  my- 
self, pent  up  all  my  life  in  a  dirty  city,  have  formed 
of  a  tour  to  the  Lakes.  Consider  Grasmere  !  Am- 
bleside !  Wordsworth  !  Coleridge  !  Hills,  woods, 
lakes,  and  mountains,  to  the  devil  !  I  will  eat  snipes 
with  thee,  Thomas  Manning.  Only  confess,  confess, 
a  bite.  ^    •    •    • 

P.  S.  —  I  think  you  named  the  i6th3  but  was  it 
not  modest  of  Lloyd  to  send  such  an  invitation  ! 
It  shows  his  knowledge  of  money  and  time.  I 
would  be  loth  to  think   he  meant 

"  Ironic  satire  sidelong  sklented 
On  my  poor  pursie."  ^ 

For  my  part,  with  reference  to  my  friends  north- 
ward, I  must  confess-  ihat  I  am  not  romance-bit 
about  Nature.  The  earth  and  sea  and  sky  (when 
all  is  said)  is  but  as  a  house  to  dwell  in.  -  If  the 
inmates  be  courteous,  and  good  liquors  flow  like  the 
conduits  at  an  old  coronation,  if  they  can  talk  sen- 
sibly and  feel  properly,  I  have  no  need  to  stand 
staring  upon  the  gilded  looking-glass  (that  strained 
my  friend's  purse-strings  in  the  purchase),  nor  his 
five-shilling  print  over  the  mantelpiece  of  old  Nabbs 
the  carrier  (which  only  betrays  his  false  taste).- 
Just  as  important  to  me  (in  a  sense)  is  all  the  fur- 
niture of  my  world,  —  eye-pampering,  but  satisfies 

'   Burns. 


134  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

no  heart.  Streets,  streets,  streets,  markets,  the- 
atres, churches,  Covent  Gardens,  shops  sparkUng 
with  pretty  faces  of  industrious  milliners,  neat  semp- 
stresses, ladies  cheapening,  gentlemen  behind  coun- 
ters lying,  authors  in  the  street  with  spectacles, 
George  Dyers  (you  may  know  them  by  their  gait), 
lamps  lit  at  night,  pastry-cooks'  and  silversmiths' 
shops,  beautiful  Quakers  of  Pentonville,  noise  of 
coaches,  drowsy  cry  of  mechanic  watchman  at  night, 
with  bucks  reeling  home  drunk ;  if  you  happen  to 
wake  at  midnight,  cries  of  "Fire!"  and  "Stop 
thief!"  inns  of  court,  with  their  learned  air,  and 
halls,  and  butteries,  just  like  Cambridge  colleges ; 
old  book-stalls,  Jeremy  Taylors,  Burtons  on  Melan- 
choly, and  Religio  Medicis  on  every  stall.  These 
are   thy  pleasures,   O  London  with-the-many-sins  ! 

O  City  abounding  in ,  for  these  may  Keswick 

and  her  giant  brood  go  hang  I 
i;^  C.  L. 

XXXII. 

TO   MANNING. 

December  27,  1800. 

At  length  George  Dyer's  phrenitis  has  come  to 
a  crisis ;  he  is  raging  and  furiously  mad.  I  waited 
upon  the  Heathen,  Thursday  was  a  se'nnight ;  the 
first  symptom  which  struck  my  eye  and  gave  me  in- 
controvertible proof  of  the  fatal  truth  was  a  pair  of 
nankeen  pantaloons  four  times  too  big  for  him, 
which  the  said  Heathen  did  pertinaciously  affirm  to 
be  new. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  135 

They  were  absolutely  ingrained  with  the  accumu- 
lated dirt  of  ages ;  but  he  affirmed  them  to  be 
clean.  He  was  going  to  visit  a  lady  that  was  nice 
about  those  things,  and  that 's  the  reason  he  wore 
nankeen  that  day.  And  then  he  danced,  and 
capered,  and  fidgeted,  and  pulled  up  his  pantaloons, 
and  hugged  his  intolerable  flannel  vestment  closer 
about  his  poetic  loins ;  anon  he  gave  it  loose  to  the 
zephyrs  which  plentifully  insinuate  their  tiny  bodies 
through  every  crevice,  door,  window,  or  wainscot, 
expressly  formed  for  the  exclusion  of  such  imperti- 
nents.  Then  he  caught  at  a  proof-sheet,  and  catched 
up  a  laundress's  bill  instead  ;  made  a  dart  at  Bloom- 
field's  Poems,  and  threw  them  in  agony  aside.  I 
could  not  bring  him  to  one  direct  reply ;  he  could 
not  maintain  his  jumping  mind  in  a  right  line  for 
the  tithe  of  a  moment  by  Clifford's  Inn  clock.  He 
must  go  to  the  printer's  immediately,  —  the  most 
unlucky  accident ;  he  had  struck  off  five  hundred 
impressions  of  his  Poems,  which  were  ready  for  de- 
livery to  subscribers,  and  the  Preface  must  all  be 
expunged.  There  were  eighty  pages  of  Preface, 
and  not  till  that  morning  had  he  discovered  that  in 
the  very  first  page  of  said  Preface  he  had  set  out 
with  a  principle  of  criticism  fundamentally  wrong, 
which  vitiated  all  his  following  reasoning.  The  Pre- 
face must  be  expunged,  although  it  cost  him  ^30, 
—  the  lowest  calculation,  taking  in  paper  and  print- 
ing !  In  vain  have  his  real  friends  remonstrated 
against  this  Midsummer  madness ;  George  is  as 
obstinate  as  a  Primitive  Christian,  and  wards  and 
parries  off  all  our    thrusts  with    one  unanswerable 


136  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

fence,  —  "  Sir,  it 's  of  great  consequence  that  the 
world  is  not  misled T^ 

Man  of  many  snipes,  I  will  sup  with  thee,  Deo 
volente  et  diabolo  nolente,  on  Monday  night  the 
5th  of  January,  in  the  new  year,  and  crush  a  cup  to 
the  infant  century. 

A  word  or  two  of  my  progress.  Embark  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  with  a  fresh  gale,  on  a 
Cambridge  one-decker;  very  cold  till  eight  at 
night ;  land  at  St.  Mary's  lighthouse,  muffins  and 
coffee  upon  table  (or  any  other  curious  produc- 
tion of  Turkey  or  both  Indies),  snipes  exactly  at 
nine,  punch  to  commence  at  ten,  with  argument; 
difference  of  opinion  is  expected  to  take  place  about 
eleven ;  perfect  unanimity,  with  some  haziness  and 
dimness,  before  twelve.  N.  B.  —  My  single  affec- 
tion is  not  so  singly  wedded  to  snipes ;  but  the 
curious  and  epicurean  eye  would  also  take  a  pleasure 
in  beholding  a  delicate  and  well-chosen  assortment 
of  teals,  ortolans,  the  unctuous  and  palate-soothing 
flesh  of  geese  wild  and  tame,  nightingales'  brains, 
the  sensorium  of  a  young  sucking-pig,  or  any  other 
Christmas  dish,  which  I  leave  to  the  judgment  of 
you  and  the  cook  of  Gonville. 

C.  Lamb. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  137 

XXXIII. 

TO  COLERIDGE. 

(End  of  1800  ) 
I  SEND  you,  in  this  parcel,  my  play,  which  I  beg 
you  to  present  in  my  name,  with  my  respect  and 
love,  to  Wordsworth  and  his  sister.  You  blame  us 
for  giving  your  direction  to  Miss  Wesley;  the 
woman  has  been  ten  times  after  us  about  it,  and  we 
gave  it  her  at  last,  under  the  idea  that  no  further 
harm  would  ensue,  but  she  would  once  write  to  you, 
and  you  would  bite  your  lips  and  forget  to  answer 
it,  and  so  it  would  end.  You  read  us  a  dismal 
homily  upon  "  Realities."  We  know  quite  as  well 
as  you  do  what  are  shadows  and  what  are  realities. 
You,  for  instance,  when  you  are  over  your  fourth  or 
fifth  jorum,  chirping  about  old  school  occurrences, 
are  the  best  of  realities.  Shadows  are  cold,  thin 
things,  that  have  no  warmth  or  grasp  in  them. 
Miss  Wesley  and  her  friend,  and  a  tribe  of  author- 
esses, that  come  after  you  here  daily,  and,  in  defect 
of  you,  hive  and  cluster  upon  us,  are  the  shadows. 
You  encouraged  that  mopsey.  Miss  Wesley,  to  dance 
after  you,  in  the  hope  of  having  her  nonsense  put 
into  a  nonsensical  Anthology.  We  have  pretty  well 
shaken  her  off,  by  that  simple  expedient  of  referring 
her  to  you ;  but  there  are  more  burrs  in  the  wind. 
I  came  home  t'other  day  from  business,  hungry  as  a 
hunter,  to  dinner,  with  nothing,  I  am  sure,  of  the 
author  hut  hunger  about   me,  and  whom  found  I 


13S  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

closeted  with  Mary  but  a  friend  of  this  Miss  Wesley, 
one  Miss  Benje,  or  Bengey/  —  I  don't  know  how 
she  spells  her  name.  I  just  came  in  time  enough,  I 
believe,  luckily,  to  prevent  them  from  exchanging 
vows  of  eternal  friendship.  It  seems  she  is  one  of 
your  authoresses,  that  you  first  foster,  and  then 
upbraid  us  with.  But  I  forgive  you.  "  The  rogue 
has  given  me  potions  to  make  me  love  him."  Well ; 
go  she  would  not,  nor  step  a  step  over  our  threshold, 
till  we  had  promised  to  come  and  drink  tea  with  her 
next  night.  I  had  never  seen  her  before,  and  could 
not  tell  who  the  devil  it  was  that  was  so  familiar.  We 
went,  however,  not  to  be  impolite.  Her  lodgings 
are  up  two  pairs  of  stairs  in  East  Street.  Tea  and 
coffee  and  macaroons  —  a  kind  of  cake  —  I  much 
love.  We  sat  down.  Presently  Miss  Benje  broke 
the  silence  by  declaring  herself  quite  of  a  different 
opinion  from  DTsraeli,  who  supposes  the  differences 
of  human  intellect  to  be  the  mere  effect  of  organi- 
zation. She  begged  to  know  my  opinion.  I  at- 
tempted to  carry  it  off  with  a  pun  upon  organ  ;  but 
that  went  off  very  fiat.  She  immediately  conceived 
a  very  low  opinion  of  my  metaphysics ;  and  turning 
round  to  Mary,  put  some  question  to  her  in  French, 
—  possibly  having  heard  that  neither  Mary  nor  I 
understood  French.  The  explanation  that  took 
place  occasioned  some  embarrassment  and  much 
wondering.  She  then  fell  into  an  insulting  conver- 
sation about  the  comparative  genius  and  merits  of 
all  modern  languages,  and  concluded  with  asserting 

1  Miss  Elizabeth  Benger      See  "  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography,"  iv.  221. 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  139 

that  the  Saxon  was  esteemed  the  purest  dialect  in 
Germany.     From  thence  she  passed  into  the  subject 
of  poetry,  where  I,  who  had  hitherto  sat  mute  and  a 
hearer  only,  humbly  hoped   I  might  now  put  in  a 
word  to  some  advantage,  seeing  that  it  was  my  own 
trade  in  a  manner.     But  I  was  stopped  by  a  round 
assertion  that  no  good  poetry  had  appeared  since 
Dr.  Johnson's  time.     It  seems  the  Doctor  had  sup- 
pressed   many  hopeful  geniuses   that   way   by   the 
severity  of  his  critical  strictures  in  his  "  Lives  of  the 
Poets."     I  here  ventured  to  question  the  foot,  and 
was  beginning  to  appeal  to  names  ;  but  I  was  assured 
"it  was  certainly  the   case."     Then  we   discussed 
Miss  More's  book  on  education,  which  I  had  never 
read.     It  seems  Dr.  Gregory,  another  of  Miss  Ben- 
gey's    friends,    has  found   fault   with    one    of  Miss 
More's  metaphors.     Miss  More   has  been  at  some 
pains  to  vindicate  herself,  —  in  the  opinion  of  Miss 
Bengey,  not  without  success.     It  seems  the  Doctor 
is  invariably  against  the   use  of  broken  or  mixed 
metaphor,  which  he  reprobates  against  the  authority 
of  Shakspeare   himself.      We    next    discussed    the 
question   whether   Pope   was   a   poet.      I   find   Dr. 
Gregory  is  of  opinion    he  was    riot,  though    Miss 
Seward  does  not  at  all  concur  with  him  in  this.     We 
then  sat  upon   the  comparative   merits  of  the  ten 
translations   of    "  Pizarro,"    and    Miss    Bengey,    or 
Benje,  advised  Mary  to  take  two  of  them  home  ;  she 
thpught  it  might  afford  her  some  pleasure  to  com- 
pare them  verbatim  ;  which  we  declined.      It  being 
now  nine  o'clock,  wine  and  macaroons  were  again 
served  round,  and  we  parted,  with  a  promise  to  go 


I40  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

again  next  week,  and  meet  the  Miss  Porters,  who,  it 
seems,  have  heard  much  of  Mr.  Coleridge,  and  wish 
to  meet  us,  because  we  are  his  friends.  I  have 
been  preparing  for  the  occasion.  I  crowd  cotton 
in  my  ears.  I  read  all  the  reviews  and  magazines  of 
the  past  month  against  the  dreadful  meeting,  and  I 
hope  by  these  means  to  cut  a  tolerable  second-rate 
figure. 

Pray  let  us  have  no  more  complaints  about 
shadows.  We  are  in  a  fair  way,  through  you,  to 
surfeit  sick  upon  them. 

Our  loves  and  respects  to  your  host  and  hostess. 
Our  dearest  love  to  Coleridge. 

Take  no  thought  about  your  proof-sheets;  they 
shall  be  done  as  if  Woodfall  himself  did  them.  Pray 
send  us  word  of  Mrs.  Coleridge  and  little  David 
Hartley,   your  little  reality. 

Farewell,  dear  Substance.  Take  no  umbrage  at 
anything  I  have  written. 

C.  Lamb,  Umbra, 


XXXIV. 

TO  WORDSWORTH. 

Ja)mary,  1801. 
Thanks  for  your  letter  and  present.     I   had  al 
ready  borrowed  your  second  volume.^    What  pleases 
one  most  is  "  The  Song  of  Lucy."     Simon'' s  sickly 

'  Of  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads,"  then  just  published.  For  cer- 
tain results  of  Lamb's  strictures  in  this  letter,  see  Letter 
xxxvii. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  141 

Daughter,  in  "The  Sexton,"  made  me  cry.  Next 
to  these  are  the  description  of  these  continuous 
echoes  in  the  story  of  "Joanna's  Laugh,"  where  the 
mountains  and  all  the  scenery  absolutely  seem  alive  ; 
and  that  fine  Shakspearian  character  of  the  "  happy 
man  "  in  the  "  Brothers,"  — 

"  That  creeps  about  the  fields, 
Following  his  fancies  by  the  hour,  to  bring 
Tears  down  his  cheek,  or  solitary  smiles 
Into  his  face,  until  the  setting  sun 
Write  Fool  upon  his  forehead !  " 

I  will  naention  one  more,  —  the  delicate  and  curi- 
ous feeling  in  the  wish  for  the  "  Cumberland  Beg- 
gar "  that  he  may  have  about  him  the  melody  of 
birds,  although  he  hear  them  not.  Here  the  mind 
knowingly  passes  a  fiction  upon  herself,  first  substi- 
tuting her  own  feeling  for  the  Beggar's,  and  in  the 
same  breath  detecting  the  fallacy,  will  not  part  with 
the  wish.  The  "  Poet's  Epitaph  "  is  disfigured,  to 
my  taste,  by  the  common  satire  upon  parsons  and 
lawyers  in  the  beginning,  and  the  coarse  epithet  of 
"pin-point,"  in  the  sixth  stanza.  All  the  rest  is 
eminently  good,  and  your  own.  I  will  just  add  that 
it  appears  to  me  a  fault  in  the  "  Beggar  "  that  the 
instructions  conveyed  in  it  are  too  direct,  and  like 
a  lecture  :  they  don't  slide  into  the  mind  of  the 
reader  while  he  is  imagining  no  such  matter.  An 
intelligent  reader  finds  a  sort  of  insult  in  being  told, 
"I  will  teach  you  how  to  think  upon  this  subject." 
This  fault,  if  I  am  right,  is  in  a  ten-thousandth  worse 
'  degree  to  be  found  in  Sterne,  and  in  many  novelists 
and  modern  poets,  who  continually  put  a  sign-post 


142  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

up  to  show  where  you  are  to  feel.  They  set  out 
with  assuming  their  readers  to  be  stupid,  —  very  dif- 
ferent from  "Robinson  Crusoe,"  the  "Vicar  of 
Wakefield,"  "  Roderick  Random,"  and  other  beau- 
tiful, bare  narratives.  There  is  implied  an  un- 
written compact  between  author  and  reader :  "  I 
will  tell  you  a  story,  and  I  suppose  you  will  under- 
stand it."  Modern  novels,  "  St.  Leons  "  and  the 
like,  are  full  of  such  flowers  as  these,  —  "  Let  not 
my  reader  suppose  ;  "  "  Imagine,  if  you  can,  mod- 
est," etc.  I  will  here  have  done  with  praise  and 
blame.  I  have  written  so  much  only  that  you  may 
not  think  I  have  passed  over  your  book  without 
observation.  ...  I  am  sorry  that  Coleridge  has 
christened  his  "  Ancient  Marinere,"  a  "  Poet's  Reve- 
rie ;  "  it  is  as  bad  as  Bottom  the  Weaver's  decla- 
ration that  he  is  not  a  Hon,  but  only  the  scenical 
representation  of  a  lion.  What  new  idea  is  gained 
by  this  title  but  one  subversive  of  all  credit  —  which 
the  tale  should  force  upon  us  —  of  its  truth  ! 

For  me,  I  was  never  so  affected  with  any  human 
tale.  After  first  reading  it,  I  was  totally  possessed 
with  it  for  many  days.  I  dislike  all  the  miraculous 
part  of  it ;  but  the  feelings  of  the  man  under  the 
operation  of  such  scenery,  dragged  me  along  like 
Tom  Pipe's  magic  whistle.  I  totally  differ  from 
your  idea  that  the  "  Marinere  "  should  have  had  a 
character  and  a  profession.  This  is  a  beauty  in 
"  Gulliver's  Travels,"  where  the  mind  is  kept  in  a 
placid  state  of  little  wonderments ;  but  the  "  An- 
cient Marinere  "  undergoes  such  trials  as  overwhelm 
and   bury  all   individuality  or   memory  of  what   he 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  143 

was, — like  the  state  of  a  man  in  a  bad  dream,  one 
terrible  peculiarity  of  which  is,  that  all  conscious- 
ness of  personality  is  gone.  Your  other  observation 
is,  I  think  as  well,  a  little  unfounded  :  the  "  Mari- 
nere,"  from  being  conversant  in  supernatural  events, 
has  acquired  a  supernatural  and  strange  cast  of 
phrase,  eye,  appearance,  etc.,  which  frighten  the 
"wedding  guest."  You  will  excuse  my  remarks, 
because  I  am  hurt  and  vexed  that  you  should  think 
it  necessary,  with  a  prose  apology,  to  open  the  eyes 
of  dead  men  that  cannot  see. 

T6  sum  up  a  general  opinion  of  the  second  vol- 
ume, I  do  not  feel  any  one  poem  in  it  so  forcibly 
as  the  "  Ancient  Marinere  "  and  "  The  Mad  Mother," 
and  the  "  Lines  at  Tintern  Abbey  "  in  the  first. 

C.  L. 


XXXV. 

TO  WORDSWORTH. 

January  30,  180 1. 
I  OUGHT  before  this  to  have  replied  to  your  very 
kind  invitation  into  Cumberland.  With  you  and 
your  sister  I  could  gang  anywhere  ;  but  I  am  afraid 
whether  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  afford  so  desperate 
a  journey.  Separate  from  the  pleasure  of  your  com- 
pany, I  don't  much  care  if  I  never  see  a  mountain 
in  my  life.  I  have  passed  all  my  days  in  London, 
until  I  have  formed  as  many  and  intense  local  at- 
tachments as  any  of  you  mountaineers  can  have 
done  with  dead  nature.  The  lighted  shops  of  the 
Strand   and  Fleet  Street ;    the  innumerable  trades, 


144  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

tradesmen,  and  customers ;  coaches,  wagons,  play- 
houses ;  all  the  bustle  and  wickedness  round  about 
Covent  Garden  ;  the  very  women  of  the  town  ;  the 
watchmen,  drunken  scenes,  rattles ;  life  awake,  if 
you  awake,  at  all  hours  of  the  night ;  the  impossi- 
bility of  being  dull  in  Fleet  Street;  the  crowds,  the 
very  dirt  and  mud,  the  sun  shining  upon  houses  and 
pavements ;  the  print-shops,  the  old-book  stalls, 
parsons  cheapening  books ;  coffee-houses,  steams 
of  soups  from  kitchens ;  the  pantomimes,  London 
itself  a  pantomime*  and  a  masquerade,  —  all  these 
things  work  themselves  into  my  mind,  and  feed  me 
without  a  power  of  satiating  me.  The  wonder  of 
these  sights  impels  me  into  night-walks  about  her 
crowded  streets,  and  I  often  shed  tears  in  the  mot- 
ley Strand  from  fulness  of  joy  at  so  much  life.  All 
these  emotions  must  be  strange  to  you ;  so  are 
your  rural  emotions  to  me.  But  consider  what  must 
I  have  been  doing  all  my  life,  not  to  have  lent  great 
portions  of  my  heart  with  usury  to  such  scenes? 

My  attachments  are  all  local,  purely  local,  —  I 
have  no  passion  (or  have  had  none  since  I  was  in 
love,  and  then  it  was  the  spurious  engendering  of 
poetry  and  books)  to  groves  and  valleys.  The 
rooms  where  I  was  born,  the  furniture  which  has 
been  before  my  eyes  all  my  life,  a  bookcase  which 
has  followed  me  about  like  a  faithful  dog  (only 
exceeding  him  in  knowledge),  wherever  I  have 
moved ;  old  chairs,  old  tables ;  streets,  squares, 
where  I  have  sunned  myself;  my  old  school, — 
these  are  my  mistresses.  Have  I  not  enough  with- 
out your  mountains?     I  do  not  envy  you.     I  should 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  I45 

pity  you,  did  I  not  know  that  the  mind  will  make 
friends  with  anything.  Your  sun  and  moon,  and 
skies  and  hills  and  lakes,  affect  me  no  more  or 
scarcely  come  to  be  in  more  venerable  characters, 
than  as  a  gilded  room  with  tapestry  and  tapers, 
where  I  might  live  with  handsome  visible  objects. 
I  consider  the  clouds  above  me  but  as  a  roof  beau- 
tifully painted,  but  unable  to  satisfy  the  mind,  and 
at  last,  like  the  pictures  of  the  apartment  of  a  con- 
noisseur, unable  to  afford  him  any  longer  a  pleasure. 
So  fading  upon  me,  from  disuse,  have  been  the 
beauties  of  Nature,  as  they  have  been  confidently 
called  ;  so  ever  fresh  and  green  and  warm  are  all 
the  inventions  of  men  and  assemblies  of  men  in 
this  great  city.  I  should  certainly  have  laughed 
with  dear  Joanna. 

Give  my  kindest  love  and  my  sister's  to  D.  and 
yourself.  And  a  kiss  from  me  to  litde  Barbara 
Lewthwaite.^     Thank  you  for  liking  my  play  ! 

C.  L. 


XXXVI. 

TO  MANNING 

February,  1801. 

I  AM  going  to  change  my  lodgings,  having  re- 
ceived a  hint  that  it  would  be  agreeable,  at  our 
Lady's  next  feast.  I  have  partly  fixed  upon  most 
delectable  rooms,  which  look  out  (when  you  stand 
a-tiptoe)  over  the  Thames  and  Surrey  Hills,  at  the 
1  The  child  in  Wordsworth's  "  The  Pet  Lamb." 


146  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

upper  end  of  King's  Bench  Walks,  in  the  Temple. 
There  I  shall  have  all  the  privacy  of  a  house  without 
the  encumbrance,  and  shall  be  able  to  lock  my 
friends  out  as  often  as  I  desire  to  hold  free  converse 
with  my  immortal  mind  ;  for  my  present  lodgings 
resemble  a  minister's  levee,  I  have  so  increased  my 
acquaintance  (as  they  call  'em),  since  I  have  re- 
sided in  town.  Like  the  country  mouse,  that  had 
tasted  a  little  of  urban  manners,  I  long  to  be  nib- 
bling my  own  cheese  by  my  dear  self  without  mouse- 
traps and  time-traps.  By  my  new  plan,  I  shall  be 
as  airy,  up  four  pair  of  stairs,  as  in  the  country ; 
and  in  a  garden,  in  the  midst  of  enchanting,  more 
than  Mahometan  paradise,  London,  whose  dirtiest 
drab-frequented  alley,  and  her  lowest-bowing  trades- 
man, I  would  not  exchange  for  Skiddaw,  Helvellyn, 
James,  Walter,  and  the  parson  into  the  bargain. 
Oh,  her  lamps  of  a  night ;  her  rich  goldsmiths,  print- 
shops,  toy-shops,  mercers,  hardwaremen,  pastry- 
cooks ;  St.  Paul's  Churchyard ;  the  Strand  ;  Exeter 
'Change  \  Charing  Cross,  with  a  man  vpon  a  black 
horse  !  These  are  thy  gods,  O  London  !  Ain't 
you  mightily  moped  on  the  banks  of  the  Cam? 
Had  not  you  better  come  and  set  up  here?  You 
can't  think  what  a  difference.  All  the  streets  and 
pavements  are  pure  gold,  I  warrant  you,  —  at  least, 
I  know  an  alchemy  that  turns  her  mud  into  that 
metal :  a  mind  that  loves  to  be  at  home  in  crowds. 
'T  is  half-past  twelve  o'clock,  and  all  sober  people 
ought  to  be  a-bed.  Between  you  and  me,  the  L. 
Ballads  are  but  drowsy  performances. 

C.  Lamb  (as  you  may  guess) . 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  I47 


XXXVII. 

TO  MANNING. 

February  15,  1801. 
I  HAD  need  be  cautious  henceforward  what  opin- 
ion I  give  of  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads."  All  the  North 
of  England  are  in  a  turmoil.  Cumberland  and 
Westmoreland  have  already  declared  a  state  of  war. 
I  lately  received  from  Wordsworth  a  copy  of  the 
second  volume,  accompanied  by  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  having  received  from  me  many  months 
since  a  copy  of  a  certain  tragedy,  with  excuses  for  not 
having  made  any  acknowledgment  sooner,  it  being 
owing  to  an  "  almost  insurmountable  aversion  from 
letter-writing."  This  letter  I  answered  in  due  form 
and  time,  and  enumerated  several  of  the  passages 
which  had  most  affected  me,  adding,  unfortunately, 
that  no  single  piece  had  moved  me  so  forcibly 
as  the  "Ancient  Mariner,"  "The  Mad  Mother," 
or  the  "  Lines  at  Tintern  Abbey."  The  Post  did 
not  sleep  a  moment.  I  received  almost  instantane- 
ously a  long  letter  of  four  sweating  pages  from  my 
Reluctant  Letter- Writer,  the  purport  of  which  was 
that  he  was  sorry  his  second  volume  had  not  given  me 
more  pleasure  (Devil  a  hint  did  I  give  that  it  had 
not  pleased  me),  and  "was  compelled  to  wish  that 
my  range  of  sensibility  was  more  extended,  being 
obliged  to  believe  that  I  should  receive  large  in- 
fluxes of  happiness  and  happy  thoughts"  (I  suppose 


148  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

from  the  L.  B.),  —  with  a  deal  of  stuff  about  a  cer- 
tain Union  of  Tenderness  and  Imagination,  which, 
in  the  sense  he  used  Imagination,  was  not  the  char- 
acteristic of  Shakspeare,  but  which  Milton  pos- 
sessed in  a  degree  far  exceeding  other  Poets  ;  which 
union,  as  the  highest  species  of  poetry,  and  chiefly 
deserving  that  name,  "  he  was  most  proud  to  aspire 
to  ;  "  then  illustrating  the  said  union  by  two  quota- 
tions from  his  own  second  volume  (which  I  had  been 
so  unfortunate  as  to  miss.)    First  specimen  :  A  father 

addresses  his  son  :  — 

"  When  thou 
First  earnest  into  the  World,  as  it  befalls 
To  new-born  infants,  thou  didst  sleep  away 
Two  days  ;  and  blessings  frovi  thy  father's  tongue 
Then  fell  upon  thee." 

The  lines  were  thus  undermarked,  and  then  followed, 
"  This  passage,  as  combining  in  an  extraordinary 
degree  that  union  of  tenderness  and  imagination 
which  I  am  speaking  of,  I  consider  as  one  of  the 
best  I  ever  wrote." 

Second  specimen  :  A  youth,  after  years  of  ab- 
sence, revisits  his  native  place,  and  thinks  (as  most 
people  do)  that  there  has  been  strange  alteration  in 

his  absence,  — 

"  And  that  the  rocks 
And  everlasting  hills  themselves  were  changed." 

You  see  both  these  are  good  poetry ;  but  after 
one  has  been  reading  Shakspeare  twenty  of  the 
best  years  of  one's  life,  to  have  a  fellow  start  up  and 
prate  about  some  unknown  quality  which  Shak- 
speare possessed  in  a  degree  inferior  to  Milton  and 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  149 

somebody  else  !  This  was  not  to  be  all  my  castiga- 
tion.  Coleridge,  who  had  not  written  to  me  for 
some  months  before,  starts  up  from  his  bed  of  sick- 
ness to  reprove  me  for  my  tardy  presumption;  four 
long  pages,  equally  sweaty  and  more  tedious,  came 
from  him,  assuring  me  that  when  the  works  of  a 
man  of  true  genius,  such  as  W.  undoubtedly  was, 
do  not  please  me  at  first  sight,  I  should  expect  the 
fault  to  lie  "  in  me,  and  not  in  them,"  etc.  What 
am  I  to  do  with  such  people?  I  certainly  shall 
write  them  a  very  merry  letter.  Writing  to  you,  I 
may  say  that  the  second  volume  has  no  such  pieces 
as  the  three  I  enumerated.  It  is  full  of  original 
thinking  and  an  observing  mind ;  but  it  does  not 
often  make  you  laugh  or  cry.  It  too  artfully  aims 
at  simplicity  of  expression.  And  you  sometimes 
doubt  if  simplicity  be  not  a  cover  for  poverty.  The 
best  piece  in  it  I  will  send  you,  being  short.  I 
have  grievously  offended  my  friends  in  the  North 
by  declaring  my  undue  preference ;  but  I  need 
not  fear  you. 

"  She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 
Beside  the  Springs  of  Dove, — 
A  maid  whom  there  were  few  [sic]  to  praise, 
And  very  few  to  love. 

"  A  violet,  by  a  mossy  stone 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye, 
Fair  as  a  star  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

"  She  lived  unknown  ;  and  few  could  know 
When  Lucy  ceased  to  be; 
But  she  is  in  the  grave,  and  oh, 
The  difference  to  me  !  " 


150  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

This  is  choice  and  genuine,  and  so  are  many, 
many  more.  But  one  does  not  Uke  to  have  'em 
rammed  down  one's  throat.  "  Pray  take  it,  —  it's 
very  good  ;  let  me  help  you,  —  eat  faster." 


XXXVI 1 1. 

TO  MANNING. 

September  24,  1802 
My  dear  Manning,  —  Since  the  date  of  my  last 
letter,  I  have  been  a  traveller.  A  strong  desire 
seized  me  of  visiting  remote  regions.  My  first  im- 
pulse was  to  go  and  see  Paris.  It  was  a  trivial 
objection  to  my  aspiring  mind  that  I  did  not 
understand  a  word  of  the  language,  since  I  cer- 
tainly intend  some  time  in  my  life  to  see  Paris,  and 
equally  certainly  never  intend  to  learn  the  language ; 
therefore  that  could  be  no  objection.  However,  I 
am  very  glad  I  did  not  go,  because  you  had  left 
Paris  (I  see)  before  I  could  have  set  out.  I  be- 
lieve Stoddart  promising  to  go  with  me  another  year 
prevented  that  plan.  My  next  scheme  (for  to  my 
restless,  ambitious  mind  London  was  become  a  bed 
of  thorns)  was  to  visit  the  far  famed  peak  in  Der- 
byshire, where  the  Devil  sits,  they  say,  without 
breeches.  This  my  purer  mind  rejected  as  indeli- 
cate. And  my  final  resolve  was  a  tour  to  the  Lakes. 
I  set  out  with  Mary  to  Keswick,  without  giving  Cole- 
ridge any  notice  ;  for  my  time,  being  precious,  did 
not  admit  of  it.     He  received  us  with  all  the  hospi- 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  151 

tality  in  the  world,  and  gave  up  his  time  to  show  us 
all  the  wonders  of  the  country.  He  dwells  upon  a 
small  hill  by  the  side  of  Keswick,  in  a  comfortable 
house,  quite  enveloped  on  all  sides  by  a  net  of  moun- 
tains,—  great  floundering  bears  and  monsters  they 
seemed,  all  couchant  and  asleep.  We  got  in  in  the 
evening,  travelling  in  a  post-chaise  from  Penrith, 
in  the  midst  of  a  gorgeous  sunshine,  which  trans- 
muted all  the  mountains  into  colors,  purple,  etc.  We 
thought  we  had  got  into  fairy-land.  But  that  went 
off  (as  it  never  came  again  ;  while  we  stayed,  we  had 
no  more  fine  sunsets)  ;  and  we  entered  Coleridge's 
comfortable  study  just  in  the  dusk,  when  the  moun- 
tains were  all  dark,  with  clouds  upon  their  heads. 
Such  an  impression  I  never  received  from  objects  of 
sight  before,  nor  do  I  suppose  that  I  can  ever  again. 
Glorious  creatures,  fine  old  fellows,  Skiddaw,  etc. 
I  never  shall  forget  ye,  how  ye  lay  about  that  night, 
like  an  intrenchment ;  gone  to  bed,  as  it  seemed 
for  the  night,  but  promising  that  ye  were  to  be  seen 
in  the  morning.  Coleridge  had  got  a  blazing  fire 
in  his  study,  which  is  a  large,  antique,  ill-shaped 
room,  with  an  old-fashioned  organ,  never  played 
upon,  big  enough  for  a  church,  shelves  of  scattered 
folios,  an  yEolian  harp,  and  an  old  sofa,  half-bed, 
etc.  ;  and  all  looking  out  upon  the  last  fading  view 
of  Skiddaw  and  his  broad-breasted  brethren.  What 
a  night  !  Here  we  stayed  three  full  weeks,  in  which 
time  I  visited  Wordsworth's  cottage,  where  we  stayed 
a  day  or  two  with  the  Clarksons  (good  people  and 
most  hospitable,  at  whose  house  we  tarried  one  day 
and  night),  and  saw  Lloyd.    The  Wordsworths  were 


152  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

gone  to  Calais.  They  have  since  been  in  London, 
and  passed  much  time  with  us  :  he  has  now  gone 
into  Yorkshire  to  be  married.  So  we  have  seen 
Keswick,  Grasmere,  Ambleside,  Ulswater  (where 
the  Clarksons  live),  and  a  place  at  the  other  end 
of  Ulswater, —  I  forget  the  name,i  —  to  which  we 
travelled  on  a  very  sultry  day,  over  the  middle  of 
Helvellyn.  We  have  clambered  up  to  the  top  of 
Skiddaw,  and  I  have  waded  up  the  bed  of  Lodore. 
In  fine,  I  have  satisfied  myself  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  that  which  tourists  call  romantic,  which  I 
very  much  suspected  before ;  they  make  such  a 
spluttering  about  it,  and  toss  their  splendid  epithets 
around  them,  till  they  give  as  dim  a  light  as  at  four 
o'clock  next  morning  the  lamps  do  after  an  illumi- 
nation. Mary  was  excessively  tired  when  she  got 
about  half  way  up  Skiddaw ;  but  we  came  to  a  cold 
rill  (than  which  nothing  can  be  imagined  more  cold, 
running  over  cold  stones),  and  with  the  reinforce- 
ment of  a  draught  of  cold  water  she  surmounted  it 
most  manfully.  Oh,  its  fine  black  head,  and  the 
bleak  air  atop  of  it,  with  a  prospect  of  mountains  all 
about  and  about,  making  you  giddy  ;  and  then  Scot- 
land afar  off,  and  the  border  countries  so  famous  in 
song  and  ballad  !  It  was  a  day  that  will  stand  out 
like  a  mountain,  I  am  sure,  in  my  life.  But  I  am 
returned  (I  have  now  been  come  home  near  three 
weeks;  I  was  a  month  out),  and  you  cannot  con- 
ceive the  degradation  I  felt  at  first,  from  being  ac- 
customed to  wander  free  as  air  among  mountains, 
and  bathe  in  rivers  without  being  controlled  by  any 

1  Patterdale. 


LETTERS  OE  CHARLES  LAMB.  153 

one,  to  come  home  and  work.  I  felt  very  little. 
I  had  been  dreaming  I  was  a  very  great  man.  But 
that  is  going  off,  and  I  find  I  shall  conform  in  time 
to  that  state  of  life  to  which  it  has  pleased  God  to 
call  me.  Besides,  after  all.  Fleet  Street  and  the 
Strand  are  better  places  to  live  in  for  good  and  all 
than  amidst  Skiddaw.  Still,  I  turn  back  to  those 
great  places  where  I  wandered  about,  participating 
in  their  greatness.  After  all,  I  could  not  live  in 
Skiddaw.  I  could  spend  a  year,  —  two,  three  years 
among  them  ;  but  I  must  have  a  prospect  of  seeing 
Fleet  Street  at  the  end  of  that  time,  or  I  should 
mope  and  pine  away,  I  know.  Still,  Skiddaw  is  a 
fine  creature. 

My  habits  are  changing,  I  think,  —  /.  e.,  from 
drunk  to  sober.  Whether  I  shall  be  happier  or 
not,  remains  to  be  proved.  I  shall  certainly  be 
more  happy  in  a  morning ;  but  whether  I  shall 
not  sacrifice  the  fat  and  the  marrow  and  the  kid- 
neys, —  /.  e.,  the  night,  —  glorious,  care-drowning 
night,  that  heals  all  our  wrongs,  pours  wine  into  our 
mortifications,  changes  the  scene  from  indifferent 
and  flat  to  bright  and  brilliant?  O  Manning,  if  I 
should  have  formed  a  diabohcal  resolution,  by  the 
time  you  come  to  England,  of  not  admitting  any 
spirituous  liquors  into  my  house,  will  you  be  my  guest 
on  such  shameworthy  terms?  Is  life,  with  such  lim- 
itations, worth  trying  ?  The  truth  is,  that  my  liquors 
bring  a  nest  of  friendly  harpies  about  my  house,  who 
consume  me.  This  is  a  pitiful  tale  to  be  read  at  St. 
Gothard  ;  but  it  is  just  now  nearest  my  heart. 


154  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

XXXIX. 

TO    COLERIDGE. 

October  23,  1802. 

I  READ  daily  your  political  essays.  I  was  particu- 
larly pleased  with  "  Once  a  Jacobin  ;  "  though  the 
argument  is  obvious  enough,  the  style  was  less  swell- 
ing than  your  things  sometimes  are,  and  it  was  plaus- 
ible ad  popiiluin.  A  vessel  has  just  arrived  from 
Jamaica  with  the  news  of  poor  Sam  Le  Grice's  death. 
He  died  at  Jamaica  of  the  yellow  fever.  His  course 
was  rapid,  and  he  had  been  very  foolish ;  but  I  be- 
lieve there  was  more  of  kindness  and  warmth  in  him 
than  in  almost  any  other  of  our  schoolfellows.  The 
annual  meeting  of  the  Blues  is  to-morrow,  at  the 
London  Tavern,  where  poor  Sammy  dined  with 
them  two  years  ago,  and  attracted  the  notice  of  all 
by  the  singular  foppishness  of  his  dress.  When 
hien  go  off  the  stage  so  early,  it  scarce  seems  a 
noticeable  thing  in  their  epitaphs,  whether  they  had 
been  wise  or  silly  in  their  lifetime. 

I  am  glad  the  snuff  and  Pi-pos's  books  please. 
"  Goody  Two  Shoes  "  is  almost  out  of  print.  Mrs. 
Barbauld's  stuff  has  banished  all  the  old  classics  of 
the  nursery ;  and  the  shopman  at  Newberry's  hardly 
deigned  to  reach  them  off  an  old  exploded  corner  of 
a  shelf,  when  Mary  asked  for  them.  Mrs.  B.'s  and 
Mrs.  Trimmer's  nonsense  lay  in  piles  about.  Knowl- 
edge insignificant  and  vapid  as  Mrs.  B.'s  books  con- 
vey, it  seems,  must  come  to  the  child  in  the  shape 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  I55 

of  knowledge,  and  his  empty  noddle  must  be  turned 
with  conceit  of  his  own  powers  when  he  has  learned 
that  a  horse  is  an  animal,  and  Billy  is  better  than  a 
horse,  and  such  like  ;  instead  of  that  beautiful  inter- 
est in  wild  tales  which  made  the  child  a  man,  while 
all  the  time  he  suspected  himself  to  be  no  bigger 
than  a  child.  Science  has  succeeded  to  poetry  no 
less  in  the  little  walks  of  children  than  with  men. 
Is  there  no  possibility  of  averting  this  sore  evil? 
Think  what  you  would  have  been  now,  if  instead  of 
being  fed  with  tales  and  old  wives'  fables  in  child- 
hood, you  had  been  crammed  with  geography  and 
natural  history  ! 

Hang  them  !  —  I  mean  the  cursed  Barbauld  crew, 
those  blights  and  blasts  of  all  that  is  human  in  man 
and  child. 

As  to  the  translations,  let  me  do  two  or  three 
hundred  Hues,  and  then  do  you  try  the  nostrums 
upon  Stuart  in  any  way  you  please.  If  they  go 
down,  I  will  bray  more.  In  fact,  if  I  got  or  could 
but  get  ^50  a  year  only,  in  addition  to  what  I 
have,  I  should  live  in  affluence. 

Have  you  anticipated  it,  or  could  not  you  give 
a  parallel  of  Bonaparte  with  Cromwell,  particularly 
as  to  the  contrast  in  their  deeds  affecting  foreign 
States?  Cromwell's  interference  for  the  Albigenses, 
B[onaparte]'s  against  the  Swiss.  Then  religion 
would  come  in ;  and  Milton  and  you  could  rant 
about  our  countrymen  of  that  period.  This  is  a 
hasty  suggestion,  the  more  hasty  because  I  want  my 
supper.  I  have  just  finished  Chapman's  Homer. 
Did  you  ever  read  it  ?      It  has  most  the  continuous 


156  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

power  of  interesting  you  all  along,  like  a  rapitl 
original,  of  any,  and  in  the  uncommon  excellence  of 
the  more  finished  parts  goes  beyond  Fairfax  or  any 
of  'em.  The  metre  is  fourteen  syllables,  and  ca- 
pable of  all  sweetness  and  grandeur.  Covvper's 
ponderous  blank  verse  detains  you  every  step  with 
some  heavy  Miltonism  ;  Chapman  gallops  off  with 
you  his  own  free  pace.  Take  a  simile,  for  example. 
The  council  breaks  up,  — 

"  Being  abroad,  the  earth  was  overlaid 
With  flockers  to  them,  that  came  forth  ;    as  when  of  frequent 

bees 
Swarms  rise  out  of  a  hollow  rock,  repairing  the  degrees 
Of  their  egression  endlessly,  with  ever  rising  new 
From  forth  their  sweet  nest ;  as  their  store,  still  as  it  faded, 

grew. 
And  nez'er  would  cease  sending  forth  her  clusters  to  the  spring. 
They  still  crowd  out  so  :  this  flock  here,  that  there,  belaboring 
The  loaded  flowers.     So,"  etc. 

What  endless  egressioji  of  phrases  the  dog  com- 
mands ! 

Take  another,  —  Agamemnon,  wounded,  bearing 
his  wound  heroically  for  the  sake  of  the  army  (look 
below)  to  a  woman  in  labor :  — 

"He  with  his  lance,  sword,  mighty  stones,  poured  his  heroic 
wreak 

On  other  squadrons  of  the  foe,  whiles  yet  warm  blood  did 
break 

Thro'  his  cleft  veins  :  but  when  the  wound  was  quite  ex- 
haust and  crude. 

The  eager  anguish  did  approve  his  princely  fortitude. 

As  when  most  sharp  and  bitter  pangs  distract  a  laboring 
dame, 

Which  the  divine  Ilithiae,  that  rule  the  painful  frame 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  157 

Of  human  childbirth,  pour  on  her  ;  the  Ilithiae  that  are 
The  daughters  of  Saturnia ;  with  whose  extreme  repair 
The  woman  in  her   travail   strives  to  take  the  worst  it  gives  ; 
With  thought,  it  viiist  be,  'tis  love  s  fruit,  the  end  for  zukich 

she  lives  ; 
The  7neau  to  make  herself  new  born,  ivhat  comforts   will  re- 
dound ! 
So,"  etc. 

I  will  tell  you  more  about  Chapman  and  his  pecu- 
liarities in  my  next.     I  am  much  interested  in  him. 
Yours  ever  affectionately,  and  Pi-Pos's, 

C.  L. 


XL. 

TO  MANNING. 

November,  1802. 

My  dear  Manning,  —  I  must  positively  write,  or 
I  shall  miss  you  at  Toulouse.  I  sit  here  like  a 
decayed  minute-hand  (I  lie  ;  /hat  does  not  sit),  and 
being  myself  the  exponent  of  no  time,  take  no 
heed  how  the  clocks  about  me  are  going.  You 
possibly  by  this  time  may  have  explored  all  Italy, 
and  toppled,  unawares,  into  Etna,  while  you  went 
too  near  those  rotten-jawed,  gap-toothed,  old  worn- 
out  chaps  of  hell,  —  while  I  am  meditating  a  quies- 
cent letter  to  the  honest  postmaster  at  Toulouse. 
But  in  case  you  should  not  have  h&tnfelo  de  se,  this 
is  to  tell  you  that  your  letter  was  quite  to  my  palate  ; 
in  particular  your  just  remarks  upon  Industry, 
cursed  Industry  (though  indeed  you  left  me  to 
explore  the  reason),  were  highly  relishing. 

I  Ve  often  wished  I  lived   in   the   Golden  Age, 


158  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

before  doubt,  and  propositions,  and  corollaries,  got 
into  the  world.  Now,  as  Joseph  Cottle,  a  Bard  of 
Nature,  sings,  going  up  Malvern  Hills, — 

"  How  steep,  how  painful  the  ascent  I 
It  needs  the  evidence  of  close  deduction 
To  know  that  ever  I  shall  gain  the  top." 

You  must  know  that  Joe  is  lame,  so  that  he  had 
some  reason  for  so  singing.  These  two  lines,  I 
assure  you,  are  taken  totidem  iiferis  from  a  very 
popular  poem.  Joe  is  also  an  epic  poet  as  well  as 
a  descriptive,  and  has  written  a  tragedy,  though 
both  his  drama  and  epopoiea  are  strictly  descriptive, 
and  chiefly  of  the  beauties  of  nature,  for  Joe  thinks 
man,  with  all  his  passions  and  frailties,  not  a  proper 
subject  of  the  drama.  Joe's  tragedy  hath  the  fol- 
lowing surpassing  speech  in  it.  Some  king  is  told 
that  his  enemy  has  engaged  twelve  archers  to  come 
over  in  a  boat  from  an  enemy's  country  and  way-lay 
him  ;  he  thereupon  pathetically  exclaims,  — 

"Twelve,  dost  thou  say  ?    Curse  on  those  dozen  villains  !  " 

Cottle  read  two  or  three  acts  out  to  us,  very  gravely 
on  both  sides,  till  he  came  to  this  heroic  touch,  — 
and  then  he  asked  what  we  laughed  at?  I  had  no 
more  muscles  that  day.  A  poet  that  chooses  to 
read  out  his  own  verses  has  but  a  limited  power 
over  you.  There  is  a  bound  where  his  authority 
ceases. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  159 

XLI. 

TO   MANNING. 

February  19,  1 803. 

My  dear  Manning,  —  The  general  scope  of  your 
letter  afforded  no  indications  of  insanity,  but  some 
particular  points  raised  a  scruple.  For  God's  sake, 
don't  think  any  more  of  "  Independent  Tartary."  ^ 
What  are  you  to  do  among  such  Ethiopians?  Is 
there  no  lineal  descendant  of  Prester  John  ?  Is  the 
chair  empty?  Is  the  sword  unswayed?  Depend 
upon  it,  they  '11  never  make  you  their  king  as  long 
as  any  branch  of  that  great  stock  is  remaining.  I 
tremble  for  your  Christianity.  They  will  certainly 
circumcise  you.  Read  Sir  John  Mandeville's  trav- 
els to  cure  you,  or  come  over  to  England.  There 
is  a  Tartar  man  now  exhibiting  at  ?2xeter  'Change. 
Come  and  talk  with  him,  and  hear  what  he  says 
first.  Indeed,  he  is  no  very  favorable  specimen 
of  his  countrymen  !  But  perhaps  the  best  thing 
you  can  do  is  to  try  to  get  the  idea  out  of  your 
head.  For  this  purpose  repeat  to  yourself  every 
night,  after  you  have  said  your  prayers,  the  words 
"  Independent  Tartary,  Independent  Tartary,"  two 
or  three  times,  and  associate  with  them  the  idea  of 
oblivion  ('tis  Hartley's  method  with  obstinate  me- 
mories) ;  or  say  "  Independent,  Independent,  have 
I   not  already   got  an    independence  f''      That  was 

1  Manning  had  evidently  written  to  Lamb  as  to  his  cher- 
ished project  of  exploring  remoter  China  and  Thibet. 


i6o  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

a  clever  way  of  the  old  Puritans,  —  pun-divinity. 
My  dear  friend,  think  what  a  sad  pity  it  would  be 
to  bury  such  parts  in  heathen  countries,  among 
nasty,  unconversable,  horse-belching,  Tartar  people  ! 
Some  say  they  are  cannibals ;  and  then  conceive 
a  Tartar  fellow  eating  my  friend,  and  adding  the 
cool  malignity  of  mustard  and  vinegar !  I  am 
afraid  't  is  the  reading  of  Chaucer  has  misled  you  ; 
his  foolish  stories  about  Cambuscan  and  the  ring, 
and  the  horse  of  brass.  Believe  me,  there  are  no 
such  things,  —  't  is  all  the  poet's  invention  ;  but  if 
there  were  such  darling  things  as  old  Chaucer  sings, 
I  would  np  behind  you  on  the  horse  of  brass,  and 
frisk  off  for  Prester  John's  country.  But  these  are 
all  tales ;  a  horse  of  brass  never  flew,  and  a  king's 
daughter  never  talked  with  birds  !  The  Tartars 
really  are  a  cold,  insipid,  smouchy  set.  You  '11  be 
sadly  moped  (if  you  are  not  eaten)  among  them. 
Pray  try  and  cure  yourself.  Take  hellebore  (the 
counsel  is  Horace's ;  't  was  none  of  ray  thought 
originally').  Shave  yourself  oftener.  Eat  no  saf- 
fron, for  saffron-eaters  contract  a  terrible  Tartar- 
like yellow.  Pray  to  avoid  the  fiend.  Eat  nothing 
that  gives  the  heartburn.  Shave  the  upper  Up.  Go 
about  like  an  European.  Read  no  book  of  voyages 
(they  are  nothing  but  lies)  ;  only  now  and  then  a 
romance,  to  keep  the  fancy  under.  Above  all, 
don't  go  to  any  sights  of  wild  beasts.  That  has 
been  your  ruin.  Accustom  yourself  to  write  fa- 
miliar letters  on  common  subjects  to  your  friends  in 
England,  such  as.  are  of  a  moderate  understanding. 
And  think  about  common  things  more.     I  supped 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  i6i 

last  night  with  Rickman,  and  met  a  merry  natural 
captain,  who  pleases  himself  vastly  with  once  having 
made  a  pun  at  Otaheite  in  the  O.  language.  'T  is 
the  same  man  who  said  Shakspeare  he  liked,  be- 
cause he  was  so  much  of  the  gentleman.  Rickman 
is  a  man  "absolute  in  all  numbers."  I  think  I 
may  one  day  bring  you  acquainted,  if  you  do  not 
go  to  Tartary  first ;  for  you  '11  never  come  back. 
Have  a  care,  my  dear  friend,  of  Anthropophagi ! 
their  stomachs  are  always  craving.  'Tis  terrible 
to  be  weighed  out  at  fivepence  a  pound.  To  sit  at 
table  (the  reverse  of  fishes  in  Holland),  not  as  a 
guest,  but  as  a  meat ! 

God  bless  you  !  do  come  to  England.  Air  and 
exercise  may  do  great  things.  Talk  with  some 
minister.     Why  not  your  father? 

God  dispose  all  for  the  best !  I  have  discharged 
my  duty. 

Your  sincere  friend, 

C.  Lamb. 

XLH. 

TO   MANNING. 

February,  1S03. 

Not  a  sentence,  not  a  syllable,  of  Trismegistus 
shall  be  lost  through  my  neglect.  I  am  his  word- 
banker,  his  storekeeper  of  puns  and  syllogisms. 
You  cannot  conceive  (and  if  Trismegistus  cannot, 
no  man  can)  the  strange  joy  which  I  felt  at  the 
receipt  of  a  letter  from  Paris.  It  seemed  to  give 
me  a  learned   importance  which  placed  me  above 


1 62  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

all  who  had  not  Parisian  correspondents.  Believe 
that  I  shall  carefully  husband  every  scrap,  which 
will  save  you  the  trouble  of  memory  when  you 
come  back.  You  cannot  write  things  so  trifling, 
let  them  only  be  about  Paris,  which  I  shall  not 
treasure.  In  particular,  I  must  have  parallels  of 
actors  and  actresses.  I  must  be  told  if  any  build- 
ing in  Paris  is  at  all  comparable  to  St.  Paul's,  which, 
contrary  to  the  usual  mode  of  that  part  of  our 
nature  called  admiration,  I  have  looked  up  to  with 
unfading  wonder  every  morning  at  ten  o'clock,  ever 
since  it  has  lain  in  my  way  to  business.  At  noon 
I  casually  glance  upon  it,  being  hungry ;  and  hun- 
ger has  not  much  taste  for  the  fine  arts.  Is  any 
night-walk  comparable  to  a  walk  from  St.  Paul's 
to  Charing  Cross,  for  lighting  and  paving,  crowds 
going  and  coming  without  respite,  the  rattle  of 
coaches,  and  the  cheerfulness  of  shops?  Have  you 
seen  a  man  guillotined  yet  ?  is  it  as  good  as  hang- 
ing? Are  the  women  all  painted,  and  the  men  all 
monkeys?  or  are  there  not  a  few  that  look  like 
rational  of  both  sexes  ?  Are  you  and  the  First 
Consul  thick  ?  All  this  expense  of  ink  I  may  fairly 
put  you  to,  as  your  letters  will  not  be  solely  for  my 
proper  pleasure,  but  are  to  serve  as  memoranda 
and  notices,  helps  for  short  memory,  a  kind  of 
Rumfordizing  recollection,  for  yourself  on  your  re- 
turn. Your  letter  was  just  what  a  letter  should 
be,  —  crammed  and  very  funny.  Every  part  of  it 
pleased  me,  till  you  came  to  Paris,  and  your  philo- 
sophical indolence  or  indifference  stung  me.  You 
cannot    stir    from  your    rooms    till  you  know    the 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  163 

language  !  What  the  devil  !  are  men  nothing  but 
word-trumpets?  Are  men  all  tongue  and  ear?  Have 
these  creatures,  that  you  and  I  profess  to  know 
something  about,  no  faces,  gestures,  gabble ;  no 
folly,  no  absurdity,  no  induction  of  French  educa- 
tion upon  the  abstract  idea  of  men  and  women  ; 
no  similitude  nor  dissimilitude  to  English?  Why, 
thou  cursed  Smellfungus  !  your  account  of  your 
landing  and  reception,  and  Bullen  (I  forget  how 
you  spell  it,  —  it  was  spelt  my  way  in  Harry  the 
Eighth's  time),  was  exactly  in  that  minute  style 
which  strong  impressions  inspire  (writing  to  a 
Frenchman,  I  write  as  a  Frenchman  would).  It 
appears  to  me  as  if  I  should  die  with  joy  at  the 
first  landing  in  a  foreign  country.  It  is  the  nearest 
pleasure  which  a  grown  man  can  substitute  for  that 
unknown  one,  which  he  can  never  know,  —  the  plea- 
sure of  the  first  entrance  into  life  from  the  womb. 
I  daresay,  in  a  short  time,  my  habits  would  come 
back  hke  a  "  stronger  man  "  armed,  and  drive  out 
that  new  pleasure  ;  and  I  should  soon  sicken  for 
known  objects.  Nothing  has  transpired  here  that 
seems  to  me  of  sufficient  importance  to  send  dry- 
shod  over  the  water ;  but  I  suppose  you  will  want 
to  be  told  some  news.  Tlie  best  and  the  worst 
to  me  is,  that  I  have  given  up  two  guineas  a  week 
at  the  "Post,"  and  regained  my  health  and  spirits, 
which  were  upon  the  wane.  I  grew  sick,  and 
Stuart  unsatisfied.  Liidisti  satis,  tempiis  abire  est ; 
I  must  cut  closer,  that 's  all.  JMister  Fell  —  or  as 
you,  with  your  usual  facetiousness  and  drollery,  call 
him,  Mr.  F  -|-  11  —  has  stopped  short  in  the  middle 


1 64  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

of  his  play.  Some  friend  has  told  him  that  it  has 
not  the  least  merit  in  it.  Oh  that  I  had  the  recti- 
fying of  the  Litany  !  I  would  put  in  a  Libera  nos 
{Scriptores  videlicet)  ab  a^nicis  I  That 's  all  the 
news.  A  propos  (is  it  pedantry,  writing  to  a 
Frenchman,  to  express  myself  sometimes  by  a 
French  word,  when  an  English  one  would  not  do 
as  well  ?  Methinks  my  thoughts  fall  naturally  into 
it)- 

In  all  this  time  I  have  done  but  one  thing  which  I 
reckon  tolerable,  and  that  I  will  transcribe,  because 
it  may  give  you  pleasure,  being  a  picture  of  my 
humors.  You  will  find  it  in  my  last  page.  It 
absurdly  is  a  first  number  of  a  series,  thus  strangled 
in  its  birth. 

More  news  !  The  Professor's  Rib  ^  has  come  out 
to  be  a  disagreeable  woman,  so  much  so  as  to  drive 
me  and  some  more  old  cronies  from  his  house. 
He  must  not  wonder  if  people  are  shy  of  coming 
to  see  him  because  of  the  Snakes. 

C.  L. 


XLIII. 

TO  WILLIAM   GODWIN. 

Ahmcmber  lo,  1803. 
Dear  Godwin,  —  You  never  made  a  more  unlucky 
and  perverse  mistake  than  to  suppose  that  the  rea- 
son of  my  not  writing  that  cursed  thing  was  to  be 
found  in  your  book.     I  assure  you  most  sincerely 

1  Mrs.  Godwin. 


LETTERS  OE  CHARLES  LAMB.  165 

that  I  have  been  greatly  delighted  with  "  Chaucer."  * 
I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  think  there  is  one  consider- 
able error  runs  through  it,  which  is  a  conjecturing 
spirit,  a  fondness  for  filling  out  the  picture  by  sup- 
posing what  Chaucer  did  and  how  he  felt,  where  the 
materials  are  scanty.  So  far  from  meaning  to  with- 
hold from  you  (out  of  mistaken  tenderness)  this 
opinion  of  mine,  I  plainly  told  Mrs.  Godwin  that  I 
did  find  d^  fault,  which  I  should  reserve  naming  until 
I  should  see  you  and  talk  it  over.  This  she  may 
very  well  remember,  and  also  that  I  declined  nam- 
ing this  fault  until  she  drew  it  from  me  by  asking 
me  if  there  was  not  too  much  fancy  in  the  work. 
I  then  confessed  generally  what  I  felt,  but  refused  to 
go  into  particulars  until  I  had  seen  you.  I  am  never 
very  fond  of  saying  things  before  third  persons,  be- 
cause in  the  relation  (such  is  human  nature)  some- 
thing is  sure  to  be  dropped.  If  Mrs.  Godwin  has 
been  the  cause  of  your  misconstruction,  I  am  very 
angry,  tell  her ;  yet  it  is  not  an  anger  unto  death.  I 
remember  also  telling  Mrs.  G.  (which  she  may  have 
dropt)  that  I  was  by  turns  considerably  more  de- 
lighted than  I  expected.  But  I  wished  to  reserve 
all  this  until  I  saw  you.  I  even  had  conceived  an 
expression  to  meet  you  with,  which  was  thanking 
you  for  some  of  the  most  exquisite  pieces  of  criti- 
cism I  had  ever  read  in  my  life.  In  particular,  I 
should  have  brought  forward  that  on  "  Troilus  and 
Cressida"  and  Shakspeare,  which,  it  is  little  to  say, 

^  Godwin's  "Life  of  Chaucer,"  —  a  work,  saj-s  Canon 
Ainger,  consisting  of  "four  fifths  ingenious  guessing  to  one 
fifth  of  material  having  any  historic  basis." 


l66  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

delighted  me  and  instructed  me  (if  not  absolutely ///- 
structed  me,  yet  put  \\\\.o  full-grown  sense  many  con- 
ceptions which  had  arisen  in  me  before  in  my  most 
discriminating  moods) .  All  these  things  I  was  pre- 
paring to  say,  and  bottling  them  up  till  I  came, 
thinking  to  please  my  friend  and  host  the  author, 
when  lo  !  this  deadly  blight  intervened. 

I  certainly  ought  to  make  great  allowances  for 
your  misunderstanding  me.  You,  by  long  habits  of 
composition  and  a  greater  command  gained  over 
your  own  powers,  cannot  conceive  of  the  desultory 
and  uncertain  way  in  which  I  (an  author  by  fits) 
sometimes  cannot  put  the  thoughts  of  a  common  let- 
ter into  sane  prose.  Any  work  which  I  take  upon 
myself  as  an  engagement  will  act  upon  me  to  tor- 
ment;  e.g..  when  I  have  undertaken,  as  three  or 
four  times  I  have,  a  school-boy  copy  of  verses  for 
Merchant  Taylors'  boys,  at  a  guinea  a  copy,  I  have 
fretted  over  them  in  perfect  inability  to  do  them,  and 
have  made  my  sister  wretched  with  my  wretchedness 
for  a  week  together.  The  same,  till  by  habit  I  have 
acquired  a  mechanical  command,  I  have  felt  in 
making  paragraphs.  As  to  reviewing,  in  particular, 
my  head  is  so  whimsical  a  head  that  I  cannot,  after 
reading  another  man's  book,  let  it  have  been  never 
so  pleasing,  give  any  account  of  it  in  any  methodical 
way.  I  cannot  follow  his  train.  Something  like  this 
you  must  have  perceived  of  me  in  conversation. 
Ten  thousand  times  I  have  confessed  to  you,  talking 
of  my  talents,  my  utter  inability  to  remember  in  any 
comprehensive  way  what  I  read.  I  can  vehemently 
applaud,  or  perversely  stickle,  at  parts  ;  but  I  can- 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  167 

not  grasp  at  a  whole.  This  infirmity  (which  is  noth- 
ing to  brag  of)  may  be  seen  in  my  two  little  composi- 
tions, the  tale  and  my  play,  in  both  which  no  reader, 
however  partial,  can  find  any  story.  I  wrote  such 
stuff  about  Chaucer,  and  got  into  such  digressions, 
quite  irreducible  into  i  \  column  of  a  paper,  that  I 
was  perfectly  ashamed  to  show  it  you.  However,  it 
is  become  a  serious  matter  that  I  should  convince 
you  1  neither  slunk  from  the  task  through  a  wilful 
deserting  neglect,  or  through  any  (most  imaginary 
on  your  part)  distaste  of  "  Chaucer  ;  "  and  I  will  try 
my  hand  again, —  I  hope  with  better  luck.  My  health 
is  bad,  and  my  time  taken  up  ;  but  all  I  can  spare 
between  this  and  Sunday  shall  be  employed  for  you, 
since  you  desire  it :  and  if  I  bring  you  a  crude, 
WTCtched  paper  on  Sunday,  you  must  bum  it,  and 
forgive  me ;  if  it  proves  anything  better  than  I  pre- 
dict, may  it  be  a  peace-offering  of  sweet  incense 

between  us ! 

C.  LaiMB. 

XLIV. 

TO   MANNING. 

February  Zi„  1805. 
Dear  Manning,  —  I  have  been  ver>'  unwell  since 
I  saw  you.  A  sad  depression  of  spirits,  a  most  un- 
accountable nervousness ;  from  which  I  have  been 
partially  relieved  by  an  odd  accident.  You  knew 
Dick  Hopkins,  the  swearing  scullion  of  Caius? 
This  fellow,  by  industry  and  agility,  has  thrust  him- 
self into  the  important  situations  (no  sinecures,  be- 


1 68  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

lieve  me)  of  cook  to  Trinity  Hall  and  Caius  College ; 
and  the  generous  creature  has  contrived,  with  tht 
greatest  delicacy  imaginable,  to  send  me  a  present 
of  Cambridge  brawn.  What  makes  it  the  more 
extraordinary  is,  that  the  man  never  saw  me  in  his 
life  that  I  know  of.  I  suppose  he  has  heard  of  me. 
I  did  not  immediately  recognize  the  donor  ;  but  one 
of  Richard's  cards,  which  had  accidentally  fallen  into 
the  straw,  detected  him  in  a  m.oment.  Dick,  you 
know,  was  always  remarkable  for  flourishing.  His 
card  imports  that  "  orders  [to  wit,  for  brawn]  from 
any  part  of  England,  Scotland,  or  Ireland,  will  be 
duly  executed,"  etc.  At  first  I  thought  of  declin- 
ing the  present ;  but  Richard  knew  my  blind  side 
when  he  pitched  upon  brawn.  'T  is  of  all  my  hob- 
bies the  supreme  in  the  eating  way.  He  might  have 
sent  sops  from  the  pan,  skimmings,  crumpets,  chips, 
hog's  lard,  the  tender  brown  judiciously  scalped 
from  a  fillet  of  veal  (dexterously  replaced  by  a 
salamander),  the  tops  of  asparagus,  fugitive  livers, 
runaway  gizzards  of  fowls,  the  eyes  of  martyred  pigs, 
tender  effusions  of  laxative  woodcocks,  the  red 
spawn  of  lobsters,  leverets'  ears,  and  such  pretty 
filchings  common  to  cooks ;  but  these  had  been 
ordinary  presents,  the  everyday  courtesies  of  dish- 
washers to  their  sweethearts.  Brawn  was  a  noble 
thought.  It  is  not  every  common  gullet- fancier  that 
can  properly  esteem  it.  It  is  like  a  picture  of 
one  of  the  choice  old  Italian  masters.  Its  gusto  is 
of  that  hidden  sort.  As  Wordsworth  sings  of  a 
modest  poet,  "you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you  he 
will  seem  worthy  of  your  love,"  so  brawn,  you  must 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  169 

taste  it,  ere  to  you  it  will  seem  to  have  any  taste  at 
all.  But  'tis  nuts  to  the  adept,  —  those  that  will  send 
out  their  tongues  and  feelers  to  find  it  out.  It  will 
be  wooed,  and  not  unsought  be  won.  Now,  ham- 
essence,  lobsters,  turtle,  such  popular  minions,  abso- 
lutely court  you,  lay  themselves  out  to  strike  you  at 
first  smack,  like  one  of  David's  pictures  (they  call 
him  Darveed),  compared  with  the  plain  russet- 
coated  wealth  of  a  Titian  or  a  Correggio,  as  I  illus- 
trated above.  Such  are  the  obvious  glaring  heathen 
virtues  of  a  corporation  dinner,  compared  with  the 
reserved  collegiate  worth  of  brawn.  Do  me  the 
favour  to  leave  off  the  business  which  you  may  be 
at  present  upon,  and  go  immediately  to  the  kitchens 
of  Trinity  and  Caius,  and  make  my  most  respectful 
compliments  to  Mr.  Richard  Hopkins,  and  assure 
him  that  his  brawn  is  most  excellent,  and  that  I 
am  moreover  obliged  to  him  for  his  innuendo  about 
salt  water  and  bran,  which  I  shall  not  fail  to  im- 
prove. I  leave  it  to  you  whether  you  shall  choose 
to  pay  him  the  civility  of  asking  him  to  dinner  while 
you  stay  in  Cambridge,  or  in  whatever  other  way  you 
may  best  like  to  show  your  gratitude  to  my  friend. 
Richard  Hopkins,  considered  in  many  points  of 
view,  is  a  very  extraordinary  character.  Adieu.  I 
hope  to  see  you  to  supper  in  London  soon,  where 
we  will  taste  Richard's  brawn,  and  drink  his  health 
in  a  cheerful  but  moderate  cup.  We  have  not  many 
such  men  in  any  rank  of  life  as  Mr.  R.  Hopkins. 
Crisp  the  barber,  of  St.  Mary's,  was  just  such  an- 
other. I  wonder  he  never  sent  me  any  little  token, 
—  some  chestnuts,  or  a  puff,  or  two  pound  of  hair  just 


lyo  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

to  remember  him  by ;  gifts  are  like  nails.  Pmsens 
ut  absens,  that  is,  your  present  makes  amends  for 
your  absence. 

Yours, 

C.  Lamb. 

XLV. 

TO   MISS  WORDSWORTH. 

ymie  14,  1S05. 

My  dear  Miss  Wordsworth,  —  I  have  every  rea- 
son to  suppose  that  this  illness,  like  all  Mary's 
former  ones,  will  be  but  temporary.  But  I  cannot 
always  feel  so.  Meantime  she  is  dead  to  me,  and 
I  miss  a  prop.  All  my  strength  is  gone,  and  I  am 
like  a  fool,  bereft  of  her  co-operation.  I  dare  not 
think,  lest  I  should  think  wrong ;  so  used  am  I  to 
look  up  to  her  in  the  least  and  the  biggest  perplexity. 
To  say  all  that  I  know  of  her,  would  be  more  than 
I  think  anybody  could  believe  or  ever  understand ; 
and  when  I  hope  to  have  her  well  again  with  me, 
it  would  be  sinning  against  her  feelings  to  go  about 
to  praise  her ;  for  I  can  conceal  nothing  that  I  do 
from  her.  She  is  older  and  wiser  and  better  than 
I,  and  all  my  wretched  imperfections  I  cover  to  my- 
self by  resolutely  thinking  on  her  goodness.  She 
would  share  life  and  death,  heaven  and  hell,  with  me. 
She  lives  but  for  me ;  and  I  know  I  have  been 
wasting  and  teasing  her  life  for  five  years  past  in- 
cessantly with  my  cursed  ways  of  going  on.  But 
even  in  this  upbraiding  of  myself  I  am  offending 
against  her,  for  I  know  that  she  has  cleaved  to  me 
for  better,  for  worse ;  and  if  the  balance  has  been 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  171 

against  her  hitherto,  it  was  a  noble  trade.  I  am 
stupid,  and  lose  myself  in  what  I  write.  I  write 
rather  what  answers  to  my  feelings  (which  are  some- 
times sharp  enough)  than  express  my  present  ones, 
for  I  am  only  flat  and  stupid.  I  am  sure  you  will 
excuse  my  writing  any  more,  I  am  so  very  poorly. 

I  cannot  resist  transcribing  three  or  four  lines 
which  poor  Mary  made  upon  a  picture  (a  Holy 
Family)  which  we  saw  at  an  auction  only  one  week 
before  she  left  home.  They  are  sweet  lines,  and 
upon  a  sweet  picture.  But  I  send  them  only  as  the 
last  memorial  of  her. 

VIRGIN    AND   CHILD,    L.    DA   VINCI. 

"  Maternal  Lady,  with  thy  virgin-grace, 
Heaven-born  thy  Jesus  seemeth,  sure, 
And  thou  a  virgin  pure. 
Lady  most  perfect,  when  thy  angel  face 
\  Men  look  upon,  they  wish  to  be 

A  Catholic,  Madonna  fair,  to  worship  thee." 

You  had  her  lines  about  the  "  Lady  Blanch." 
You  have  not  had  some  which  she  wrote  upon  a  copy 
of  a  girl  from  Titian,  which  I  had  hung  up  where  that 
print  of  Blanch  and  the  Abbess  (as  she  beautifully 
interpreted  two  female  figures  from  L.  da  Vinci) 
had  hung  in  our  room.      'T  is  light  and  pretty. 

"  Who  art  thou,  fair  one,  who  usurp'st  the  place 
Of  Blanch,  the  lady  of  the  matchless  grace  .'' 
Come,  fair  and  pretty,  tell  to  me 
Who  in  thy  lifetime  thou  mightst  be? 
Thou  pretty  art  and  fair, 

But  with  the  Lady  Blanch  thou  never  must  compare. 
No  need  for  Blanch  her  history  to  tell, 
Whoever  saw  her  face,  they  there  did  read  it  well ; 


172  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

But  when  I  look  on  thee,  I  only  know 

There  lived  a  pretty  maid  some  hundred  years  ago." 

This  is  a  little  unfair,  to  tell  so  much  about  our- 
selves, and  to  advert  so  little  to  your  letter,  so  full 
of  comfortable  tidings  of  you  all.  But  my  own  cares 
press  pretty  close  upon  me,  and  you  can  make  allow- 
ance. That  you  may  go  on  gathering  strength  and 
peace  is  my  next  wish  to  Mary's  recovery. 

I  had  almost  forgot  your  repeated  invitation. 
Supposing  that  Mary  will  be  well  and  able,  there  is 
another  ability  which  you  may  guess  at,  which  I 
cannot  promise  myself.  In  prudence  we  ought  not 
to  come.  This  illness  will  make  it  still  more  pru- 
dential to  wait.  It  is  not  a  balance  of  this  way  of 
spending  our  money  against  another  way,  but  an 
absolute  question  of  whether  we  shall  stop  now,  or 
go  on  wasting  away  the  little  we  have  got  before- 
hand, which  my  evil  conduct  has  already  encroached 
upon  one-half.  My  best  love,  however,  to  you  all, 
and  to  that  most  friendly  creature,  Mrs.  Clarkson, 
and  better  health  to  her,  when  you  see  or  write 
to  her. 

Charles  Lamb. 

XLVI.i 

TO  MANNING. 

May  10,  1S06. 

My  dear  M.\nning,  —  I  did  n't  know  what  your 
going  was  till  I  shook  a  last  fist  with  you,  and  then 

1  Addressed:  "Mr.  Manning,  Passenger  on  Board  the 
'Thames,' East  Indiaman,  Portsmouth."  Manning  had  set 
out  for  Canton. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  I73 

't  was  just  like  having  shaken  hands  with  a  wretch 
on  the  fatal  scaffold,  and  when  you  are  down  the 
ladder,  you  can  never  stretch  out  to  him  again. 
Mary  says  you  are  dead,  and  there  's  nothing  to  do 
but  to  leave  it  to  time  to  do  for  us  in  the  end  what 
it  always  does  for  those  who  mourn  for  people  in 
such  a  case.  But  she  '11  see  by  your  letter  you  are 
not  quite  dead.  A  little  kicking  and  agony,  and 
then  —  Martin  Burney  took  me  out  a  walking  that 
evening,  and  we  talked  of  Manning;  and  then  I 
came  home  and  smoked  for  you,  and  at  twelve 
o'clock  came  home  ]Mary  and  Monkey  Louisa  from 
the  play,  and  there  was  more  talk  and  more  smoking, 
and  they  all  seemed  first-rate  characters,  because 
they  knew  a  certain  person.  But  what 's  the  use  of 
talking  about  'em?  By  the  time  you'll  have  made 
your  escape  from  the  Kalmuks,  you  '11  have  stayed 
so  long  I  shall  never  be  able  to  bring  to  your  mind 
who  Mary  was,  who  will  have  died  about  a  year  be- 
fore, nor  who  the  Holcrofts  were  !  ^le  perhaps  you 
will  mistake  for  Phillips,  or  confound  me  with  Mr. 
Dawe,  because  you  saw  us  together.  Mary  (whom 
you  seem  to  remember  yet)  is  not  quite  easy  that 
she  had  not  a  formal  parting  from  you.  I  wish  it 
had  so  happened.  But  you  must  bring  her  a  token, 
a  shawl  or  something,  and  remember  a  sprightly 
little  mandarin  for  our  mantelpiece,  as  a  compan- 
ion to  the  child  I  am  going  to  purchase  at  the  mu- 
seum. She  says  you  saw  her  writings  about  the 
other  day,  and  she  wishes  you  should  know  what 
they  are.  She  is  doing  for  Godwin's  bookseller 
twenty  of  Shakspeare's  plays,  to  be  made  into  chil- 


174  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

dren's  tales.  Six  are  already  done  by  her ;  to  wit : 
"The  Tempest,"  "Winter's  Tale,"  "Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,"  "Much  Ado,"  "Two  Gentlemen 
of  Verona,"  and  "  Cymbeline  ;  "  and  "  The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice  "  is  in  forwardness.  I  have  done 
"  Othello "  and  "  Macbeth,"  and  mean  to  do  all 
the  tragedies.  I  think  it  will  be  popular  among 
the  little  people,  besides  money.  It's  to  bring  in 
sixty  guineas.  Mary  has  done  them  capitally,  I 
think  you  'd  think. ^  These  are  the  humble  amuse- 
ments we  propose,  while  you  are  gone  to  plant  the 
cross  of  Christ  among  barbarous  pagan  anthro- 
pophagi. Qiiam  homo  homini  p7-CEstat  I  but  then, 
perhaps,  you  '11  get  murdered,  and  we  shall  die  in 
our  beds,  with  a  fair  literary  reputation.  Be  sure,  if 
^you  see  any  of  those  people  whose  heads  do  grow 
beneath  their  shoulders,  that  you  make  a  draught  of 
them.  It  will  be  very  curious.  Oh,  Manning,  I 
am  serious  to  sinking  almost,  when  I  think  that  all 
those  evenings,  which  you  have  made  so  pleasant, 
are  gone  perhaps  forever.  Four  years  you  talk  of, 
maybe  ten ;  and  you  may  come  back  and  find  such 
alterations  !  Some  circumstances  may  grow  up  to 
you  or  to  me  that  may  be  a  bar  to  the  return  of  any 

1  Miss  Lamb  has  amusingly  described  the  progress  of 
their  labors  on  this  volume:  "You  would  like  to  see  us,  as 
we  often  sit  writing  on  one  table  (but  not  on  one  cushion 
sitting),  like  Hermia  and  Helena,  in  the  'Midsummer 
Night's  Dream ; '  or  rather  like  an  old  literary  Darby  and 
Joan,  I  taking  snuff,  and  he  groaning  all  the  while,  and  say- 
ing he  can  make  nothing  of  it,  which  he  always  says  till  he 
has  finished,  and  then  he  finds  out  that  he  has  made  some- 
thing of  it." 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  175 

such  intimacy.  I  daresay  all  this  is  hum,  and  that 
all  will  come  back ;  but  indeed  we  die  many  deaths 
before  we  die,  and  I  am  almost  sick  when  I  think 
that  such  a  hold  as  I  had  of  you  is  gone.  I  have 
friends,  but  some  of  'em  are  changed.  Marriage, 
or  some  circumstance,  rises  up  to  make  them  not 
the  same.  But  I  felt  sure  of  you.  And  that  last 
token  you  gave  me  of  expressing  a  wish  to  have  my 
name  joined  with  yours,  you  know  not  how  it 
affected  me,  —  like  a  legacy. 

God  bless  you  in  every  way  you  can  form  a  uash  ! 
May  He  give  you  health,  and  safety,  and  the  accom- 
plishment of  all  your  objects,  and  return  you  again  to 
us  to  gladden  some  fireside  or  other  (I  suppose  we 
shall  be  moved  from  the  Temple).  I  will  nurse  the 
remembrance  of  your  steadiness  and  quiet,  which 
used  to  infuse  something  like  itself  into  our  nervous 
minds.  Mary  called  you  our  ventilator.  Farewell  ! 
and  take  her  best  wishes  and  mine. 
Good  by. 

C.L. 

XLYII. 

TO  WORDSWORTH. 

June,  1806. 

Dear  Wordsworth,  —  We  are  pleased,  you  may 
be  sure,  with  the  good  news  of  Mrs.  Wordsworth.* 
Hope  all  is  well  over  by  this  time.  "  A  fine  boy  ! 
Have  you  any  more  ?  —  One  more  and  a  girl,  — 
poor  copies  of  me  !  "  vide  "  Mr.  H.,"  a  farce  which 

^  Wordsworth's  son  Thomas  was  born  June  16,  1806. 


1)6  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

the  proprietors  have  done  me  the  honor —  But  I 
set  down  Mr.  Wroughton's  own  words.  N.  B. —  The 
ensuing  letter  was  sent  in  answer  to  one  which  I 
wrote,  begging  to  know  if  my  piece  had  any  chance, 
as  I  might  make  alterations,  etc.  I  writing  on 
Monday,  there  comes  this  letter  on  the  Wednesday. 
Attend  ! 

\Copy  of  a  letter  from  Mr.  R.  WrougIiton.'\ 

Sir,  —  Your  piece  of  "  Mr.  H.,"  I  am  desired  to  say, 
is  accepted  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre  by  the  proprietors, 
and  if  agreeable  to  you,  will  be  brought  forwards  when 
the  proper  opportunity  serves.  The  piece  shall  be  sent 
to  you  for  your  alterations  in  the  course  of  a  few  days, 
as  the  same  is  not  in  my  hands,  but  with  the  proprietors. 
I  am,  sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

Richard  Wroughton. 
[Dated] 
66,  Gower  Street, 

Wednesday,  June  nth,  1806. 

On  the  following  Sunday  Mr.  Tobin  comes.  The 
scent  of  a  manager's  letter  brought  him.  He  would 
have  gone  farther  any  day  on  such  a  business.  I 
read  the  letter  to  him.  He  deems  it  authentic  and 
peremptory.  Our  conversation  naturally  fell  upon 
pieces,  different  sorts  of  pieces,  —  what  is  the  best 
way  of  offering  a  piece  ;  how  far  the  caprice  of 
managers  is  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  a  piece ;  how 
to  judge  of  the  merits  of  a  piece  ;  how  long  a  piece 
may  remain  in  the  hands  of  the  managers  before  it 
is  acted ;  and  my  piece,  and  your  piece,  and  my 
poor  brother's  piece, —  my  poor  brother  was  all  his 
life  endeavoring  to  get  a  piece  accepted. 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  177 

I  wrote  that  in  mere  wantonness  of  triumph. 
Have  nothing  more  to  say  about  it.  The  managers, 
I  thank  my  stars,  have  decided  its  merits  forever. 
They  are  the  best  judges  of  pieces,  and  it  would  be 
insensible  in  me  to  affect  a  false  modesty,  after  the 
very  flattering  letter  which  I  have  received. 


N'inth  Night. 


ADMIT 

TO 

BOXES. 

Mr.  H. 

Charles  Lamb. 


I  think  this  will  be  as  good  a  pattern  for  orders  as 
I  can  think  on.  A  little  thin  flowery  border,  round, 
neat,  not  gaudy,  and  the  Drary  Lane  Apollo,  with 
the  harp  at  the  top.  Or  shall  I  have  no  Apollo, 
—  simply  nothing?     Or  perhaps  the  Comic  Muse? 

The  same  form,  only  I  think  without  the  Apollo, 
will  serve  for  the  pit  and  galleries.  I  think  it  will 
be  best  to  write  my  name  at  full  length ;  but  then 
if  I  give  away  a  great  many,  that  will  be  tedious. 
Perhaps  Ch.  Lamb  will  do. 

BOXES,  now  I  think  on  it,  I  '11  have  in  capitals ; 
the  rest,  in  a  neat  Italian  hand.  Or  better,  perhaps, 
■Cojrcfi  in  Old  English  characters,  like  Madoc  or 
Thalaba  ? 

A  propos  of  Spenser  (you  will  find  him  mentioned 
a  page  or  two  before,  near  enough  for  an  a  propos^ , 
I  was  discoursing  on  poetry  (as  one  's  apt  to  deceive 
one's  self,  and  when  a  person  is  willing  to  talk  of 


lyS  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

what  one  likes,  to  believe  that  he  also  likes  the  same, 
as  lovers  do)  with  a  young  gentleman  of  my  office, 
who  is  deep  read  in  Anacreon  Moore,  Lord  Strang- 
ford,  and  the  principal  modern  poets,  and  I  hap- 
pened to  mention  Epithalamiums,  and  that  I  could 
show  him  a  very  fine  one  of  Spenser's.  At  the 
mention  of  this  my  gentleman,  who  is  a  very  fine 
gentleman,  pricked  up  his  ears  and  expressed  great 
pleasure,  and  begged  that  I  would  give  him  leave  to 
copy  it ;  he  did  not  care  how  long  it  was  (for  I 
objected  the  length),  he  should  be  very  happy  to 
see  anything  by  him.  Then  pausing,  and  looking 
sad,  he  ejaculated,  "  Poor  Spencer  !  "  I  begged  to 
know  the  reason  of  his  ejaculation,  thinking  that 
time  had  by  this  time  softened  down  any  calamities 
which  the  bard  might  have  endured.  "  Why,  poor 
fellow,"  said  he,  "  he  has  lost  his  wife  !  "  "  Lost 
his  wife  !  "  said  I, ''  who  are  you  talking  of?  "  "  Why, 
Spencer  !  "  said  he ;  "  Lve  read  the  Monody  he 
wrote  on  the  occasion,  and  a  very  pretty  thing  it 
is.''  This  led  to  an  explanation  (it  could  be  delayed 
no  longer)  that  the  sound  Spenser,  which,  when 
poetry  is  talked  of,  generally  excites  an  image  of  an 
old  bard  in  a  ruff,  and  sometimes  with  it  dim  notions 
of  Sir  P.  Sidney  and  perhaps  Lord  Burleigh,  had 
raised  in  my  gentleman  a  quite  contrary  image  of 
the  Honorable  William  Spencer,  who  has  translated 
some  things  from  the  German  very  prettily,  which 
are  published  with  Lady  Di  Beauclerk's  designs. 
Nothing  like  defining  of  terms  when  we  talk.  What 
blunders  might  I  have  fallen  into  of  quite  inappli- 
cable criticism,  but  for  this  timely  explanation  ! 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  179 

N.B. —  At  the  beginning  of  Edm.  Spenser  (to  pre- 
vent mistakes) ,  I  have  copied  from  my  own  copy, 
and  primarily  from  a  book  of  Chahners's  on  Shak- 
speare,  a  sonnet  of  Spenser's  never  printed  among 
his  poems.  It  is  curious,  as  being  manly,  and  rather 
Miltonic,  and  as  a  sonnet  of  Spenser's  with  nothing 
in  it  about  love  or  knighthood.  I  have  no  room  for 
remembrances,  but  I  hope  our  doing  your  commis- 
sion will  prove  we  do  not  quite  forget  you. 

C.  L. 

XLVIII. 

TO  MANNING 

December  5,  1806. 
Manning,  your  letter,  dated  Hottentots,  August 
the  what-was-it?  came  to  hand.  I  can  scarce  hope 
that  mine  will  have  the  same  luck.  China,  Can- 
ton, —  bless  us,  how  it  strains  the  imagination  and 
makes  it  ache  !  I  write  under  another  uncertainty 
whether  it  can  go  to-morrow  by  a  ship  which  I  have 
just  learned  is  going  off  direct  to  your  part  of  the 
world,  or  whether  the  despatches  may  not  be  sealed 
up  and  this  have  to  wait ;  for  if  it  is  detained  here, 
it  will  grow  staler  in  a  fortnight  than  in  a  five 
months'  voyage  coming  to  you.  It  will  be  a  point 
of  conscience  to  send  you  none  but  bran-new  news 
(the  latest  edition),  which  will  but  grow  the  better, 
like  oranges,  for  a  sea-voyage.  Oh  that  you  should 
be  so  many  hemispheres  off !  — if  I  speak  incorrectly, 
you  can  correct  me.  Why,  the  simplest  death  or 
marriage  that  takes  place  here  must  be  important 


l8o  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

to  you  as  news  in  the  old  Bastile.  There  's  your 
friend  Tuthill  has  got  away  from  France  —  you  re- 
member France  ?  and  Tuthill  ?  —  ten  to  one  but 
he  writes  by  this  post,  if  he  don't  get  my  note  in 
time,  apprising  him  of  the  vessel  sailing.  Know, 
then,  that  he  has  found  means  to  obtain  leave  from 
Bonaparte,  without  making  use  of  any  mcredible  ro- 
mantic pretences,  as  some  have  done,  who  never 
meant  to  fulfil  them,  to  come  home ;  and  I  have 
seen  him  here  and  at  Holcroft's.  An't  you  glad 
about  Tuthill?  Now  then  be  sorry  for  Holcroft, 
whose  new  play,  called  "  The  Vindictive  Man," 
was  damned  about  a  fortnight  since.  It  died  in 
part  of  its  own  weakness,  and  in  part  for  being 
choked  up  with  bad  actors.  The  two  principal 
parts  were  destined  to  Mrs.  Jordan  and  Mr.  Ban- 
nister ;  but  Mrs.  J.  has  not  come  to  terms  with  the 
managers,  —  they  have  had  some  squabble,  —  and 
Bannister  shot  some  of  his  fingers  off  by  the  going 
off  of  a  gun.  So  Miss  Duncan  had  her  part,  and  Mr. 
De  Camp  took  his.  His  part,  the  principal  comic 
hope  of  the  play,  was  most  unluckily  Goldfinch, 
taken  out  of  the  "Road  to  Ruin,"  — not  only  the 
same  character,  but  the  identical  Goldfinch ;  the 
same  as  Falstaff  is  in  two  plays  of  Shakspeare.  As 
the  devil  of  ill-luck  would  have  it,  half  the  audience 
did  not  know  that  H.  had  written  it,  but  were  dis- 
pleased at  his  stealing  from  the  "Road  to  Ruin;  " 
and  those  who  might  have  borne  a  gentlemanly 
coxcomb  with  his  "That's  your  sort,"  "Go  it,"  — 
such  as  Lewis  is,  —  did  not  relish  the  intolerable 
vulgarity  and  inanity  of  the    idea    stripped  of   his 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  l8l 

manner.  De  Camp  was  hooted,  more  than  hissed,  — 
hooted  and  bellowed  off  the  stage  before  the  second 
act  was  finished ;  so  that  the  remainder  of  his  part 
was  forced  to  be,  with  some  violence  to  the  play, 
omitted.  In  addition  to  this,  a  strumpet  was  an- 
other principal  character,  —  a  most  unfortunate 
choice  in  this  moral  day.  The  audience  were  as 
scandalized  as  if  you  were  to  introduce  such  a  per- 
sonage to  their  private  tea-tables.  Besides,  her 
action  in  the  play  was  gross,  —  wheedling  an  old 
man  into  marriage.  But  the  mortal  blunder  of  the 
play  was  that  which,  oddly  enough,  H.  took  pride 
in,  and  exultingly  told  me  of  the  night  before  it 
came  out,  that  there  were  no  less  than  eleven  princi- 
pal characters  in  it,  and  I  believe  he  meant  of  the 
men  only,  for  the  play-bill  expressed  as  much,  not 

reckoning  one  woman  and  one ;  and  true  it 

was,  for  Mr.  Powell,  Mr.  Raymond,  Mr.  Bartlett, 
Mr.  H.  Siddons,  Mr.  Barrymore,  etc.,  to  the  num- 
ber of  eleven,  had  all  parts  equally  prominent,  and 
there  was  as  much  of  them  in  quantity  and  rank 
as  of  the  hero  and  heroine,  and  most  of  them 
gentlemen  who  seldom  appear  but  as  the  hero's 
friend  in  a  farce,  —  for  a  minute  or  two,  —  and  here 
they  all  had  their  ten-minute  speeches,  and  one  of 
them  gave  the  audience  a  serious  account  how  he 
was  now  a  lawyer,  but  had  been  a  poet ;  and  then  a 
long  enumeration  of  the  inconveniences  of  author- 
ship, rascally  booksellers,  reviewers,  etc.  ;  which 
first  set  the  audience  a-gaping.  But  I  have  said 
enough ;  you  will  be  so  sorry  that  you  will  not 
think  the  best  of  me  for    my  detail :  but  news  is 


r82  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

news  at  Canton.  Poor  H.  I  fear  will  feel  the  dis- 
appointment very  seriously  in  a  pecuniary  light. 
From  what  I  can  learn,  he  has  saved  nothing.  You 
and  I  were  hoping  one  day  that  he  had ;  but  I  fear 
he  has  nothing  but  his  pictures  and  books,  and  a 
no  very  flourishing  business,  and  to  be  obliged  to 
part  with  his  long-necked  Guido  that  hangs  oppo- 
site as  you  enter,  and  the  game-piece  that  hangs 
in  the  back  drawing-room,  and  all  those  Vandykes, 
etc.  !  God  should  temper  the  wind  to  the  shorn 
connoisseur.  I  hope  I  need  not  say  to  you  that  I 
feel  for  the  weather-beaten  author  and  for  all  his 
household.  I  assure  you  his  fate  has  soured  a  good 
deal  the  pleasure  I  should  have  otherwise  taken  in 
my  own  little  farce  being  accepted,  and  I  hope 
about  to  be  acted,  —  it  is  in  rehearsal  actually,  and 
I  expect  it  to  come  out  next  week.  It  is  kept  a 
sort  of  secret,  and  the  rehearsals  have  gone  on  pri- 
vately, lest  by  many  folks  knowing  it,  the  story 
should  come  out,  which  would  infallibly  damn  it. 
You  remember  I  had  sent  it  before  you  went. 
Wroughton  read  it,  and  was  much  pleased  with  it. 
I  speedily  got  an  answer.  1  took  it  to  make  altera- 
tions, and  lazily  kept  it  some  months,  then  took 
courage  and  furbished  it  up  in  a  day  or  two  and 
took  it.  In  less  than  a  fortnight  I  heard  the  princi- 
pal part  was  given  to  Elliston,  who  liked  it,  and 
only  wanted  a  prologue,  which  I  have  since  done 
and  sent ;  and  I  had  a  note  the  day  before  yester- 
day from  the  manager,  Wroughton  (bless  his  fat  face, 
he  is  not  a  bad  actor  in  some  things),  to  say 
that  I  should  be  summoned  to   the  rehearsal  after 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  1 83 

the  next,  which  next  was  to  be  yesterday.  I  had 
no  idea  it  was  so  forward.  I  have  had  no  trouble, 
attended  no  reading  or  rehearsal,  made  no  interest ; 
what  a  contrast  to  the  usual  parade  of  authors  ! 
But  it  is  peculiar  to  modesty  to  do  all  things  with- 
out noise  or  pomp  !  I  have  some  suspicion  it  will 
appear  in  public  on  \\'ednesday  next,  for  W.  says 
in  his  note,  it  is  so  forward  that  if  wanted  it  may 
come  out  next  week,  and  a  new  melodrama  is  an- 
nounced for  every  day  till  then ;  and  "  a  new  farce 
is  in  rehearsal,"  is  put  up  in  the  bills.  Now,  you  'd 
like  to  know  the  subject.  The  title  is  "  Mr.  H.," 
no  more ;  how  simple,  how  taking  !  A  great  H. 
sprawling  over  the  play-bill  and  attracting  eyes  at 
every  corner.  The  story  is  a  coxcomb  appearing  at 
Bath,  vastly  rich,  all  the  ladies  dying  for  him,  all 
bursting  to  know  who  he  is ;  but  he  goes  by  no 
other  name  than  Mr.  H.,  —  a  curiosity  like  that  of 
the  dames  of  Strasburg  about  the  man  with  the  great 
nose.  But  I  won't  tell  you  any  more  about  it.  Yes, 
I  will,  but  I  can't  give  you  an  idea  how  I  have  done 
it.  I  '11  just  tell  you  that  after  much  vehement  ad- 
miration, when  his  true  name  comes  out,  "  Hogs- 
flesh,"  all  the  women  shun  him,  avoid  him,  and  not 
one  can  be  found  to  change  their  name  for  him,  — 
that 's  the  idea,  —  how  flat  it  is  here  ;  ^  but  how 
whimsical  in  the  farce  !  And  only  think  how  hard 
upon  me  it  is  that  the  ship  is  despatched  to-morrow, 
and  my  triumph  cannot  be  ascertained  till  the  Wed- 
nesday after ;    but  all  China  will  ring  of  it  by  and 

1  It  was  precisely  this  flatness,  this  slightness  of  plot  and 
catastrophe,  that  doomed  "  Mr.  H."  to  failure.  See  next 
letter. 


1 84  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

by.  N.  B.  (But  this  is  a  secret.)  The  Professor^ 
has  got  a  tragedy  coming  out,  with  the  young  Ros- 
cius  in  it,  in  January  next,  as  we  say,  —  January  last 
it  will  be  with  you  ;  and  though  it  is  a  profound 
secret  now,  as  all  his  affairs  are,  it  cannot  be  much 
of  one  by  the  time  you  read  this.  However,  don't 
let  it  go  any  farther.  I  understand  there  are  dra- 
matic exhibitions  in  China.  One  would  not  like  to 
be  forestalled.  Do  you  find  in  all  this  stuff  1  have 
written  anything  like  those  feelings  which  one  should 
send  my  old  adventuring  friend,  that  is  gone  to  wan- 
der among  Tartars,  and  may  never  come  again?  I 
don't ;  but  your  going  away,  and  all  about  you,  is  a 
threadbare  topic.  I  have  worn  it  out  with  thinking, 
it  has  come  to  me  when  I  have  been  dull  with 
anything,  till  my  sadness  has  seemed  more  to  have 
come  from  it  than  to  have  introduced  it.  I  want 
you,  you  don't  know  how  much ;  but  if  I  had  you 
here  in  my  European  garret,  we  should  but  talk  over 
such  stuff  as  I  have  written,  so  —  Those  "  Tales  from 
Shakspeare  "  are  near  coming  out,  and  Mary  has 
begun  a  new  work.  Mr.  Dawe  is  turned  author; 
he  has  been  in  such  a  way  lately,  —  Dawe  the  painter, 
I  mean,  —  he  sits  and  stands  about  at  Holcroft's  and 
says  nothing,  then  sighs,  and  leans  his  head  on  his 
hand.  I  took  him  to  be  in  love,  but  it  seems  he 
was  only  meditating  a  work,  —  "  The  Life  of  Mor- 
land  :  "  the  young  man  is  not  used  to  composition. 
Rickman  and  Captain  Burney  are  well ;  they  assem- 
ble at  my  house  pretty  regularly  of  a  Wednesday,  — 

1  Godwin.     His    tragedy  of    "  Faulkner  "  was  published 
in  iSoS. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  185 

a  new  institution.  Like  other  great  men,  I  have  a 
pubUc  day,  —  cribbage  and  pipes,  with  PhiUips  and 
noisy  Martin  Burney. 

Good  Heaven,  what  a  bit  only  I  've  got  left ! 
How  shall  I  squeeze  all  I  know  into  this  morsel ! 
Coleridge  is  come  home,  and  is  going  to  turn 
lecturer  on  taste  at  the  Royal  Institution.  I  shall 
get  ^200  from  the  theatre  if  "  Mr.  H."  has  a  good 
run,  and  I  hope  ^100  for  the  copyright.  Nothing 
if  it  fails  ;  and  there  never  was  a  more  ticklish  thing. 
The  whole  depends  on  the  manner  in  which  the 
name  is  brought  out,  which  I  value  myself  on,  as  a 
chef  cVceuvre.  How  the  paper  grows  less  and  less  ! 
In  less  than  two  minutes  I  shall  cease  to  talk  to 
you,  and  you  may  rave  to  the  Great  Wall  of  China. 
N.  B.  —  Is  there  such  a  wall?  Is  it  as  big  as-  Old 
London  Wall  by  Bedlam?  Have  you  met  with  a 
friend  of  mine  named  Ball  at  Canton?  If  you 'are 
acquainted,  remember  me  kindly  to  him.  Maybe 
you  '11  think  I  have  not  said  enough  of  Tuthill  and 
the  Holcrofts.  Tuthill  is  a  noble  fellow,  as  far  as  I 
can  judge.  The  Holcrofts  bear  their  disappoint- 
ment pretty  well,  but  indeed  they  are  sadly  mor- 
tified. Mrs.  H.  is  cast  down.  It  was  well,  if  it 
were  but  on  this  account,  that  Tuthill  is  come  home. 
N.  B.  —  If  my  little  thing  don't  succeed,  I  shall  easily 
survive,  having,  as  it  were,  compared  to  H.'s  venture, 
but  a  sixteenth  in  the  lottery.  Mary  and  I  are  to 
sit  next  the  orchestra  in  the  pit,  next  the  tweedle- 
dees.  She  remembers  you.  You  are  more  to  us 
than  five  hundred   farces,  clappings,   etc. 

Come  back  one  day.  C.  Lamb. 


1 86  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


XLIX. 

TO   WORDSWORTH. 

December,  ii,  iSo6. 
Mary's  love  to  all  of  you ;    I  would  n't  let  her 
write. 

Dear  Wordsworth,  —  "  Mr.  H."  came  out  last 
night,  and  failed.  I  had  many  fears ;  the  subject 
was  not  substantial  enough.  John  Bull  must  have 
solider  fare  than  a  letter.  We  are  pretty  stout  about 
it ;  have  had  plenty  of  condoling  friends ;  but,  after 
all,  we  had  rather  it  should  have  succeeded.  You 
will  see  the  prologue  in  most  of  the  morning  papers. 
It  was  received  with  such  shouts  as  I  never  witnessed 
to  a  prologue.  It  was  attempted  to  be  encored. 
How  hard  !  a  thing  I  did  merely  as  a  task,  be- 
cause it  was  wanted,  and  set  no  great  store  by ;  and 
"  Mr.  H."  !  The  quantity  of  friends  we  had  in  the 
house  —  my  brother  and  I  being  in  public  offices, 
etc.  —  was  astonishing ;  but  they  yielded  at  last 
to  a  {t\v  hisses. 

A  hundred  hisses  (Damn  the  word,  I  write  it 
like  kisses, — how  different!) — a  hundred  hisses 
outweigh  a  thousand  claps. ^  The  former  come  more 
directly  from  the  heart.  Well,  't  is  withdrawn,  and 
there  is  an  end. 

Better  luck  to  us, 

C.  Lamb. 

1  Lamb  was  himself  in  the  audience,  and  is  said  to  have 
taken  a  conspicuous  share  in  the  storm  of  hisses  that  fol- 
lowed the  dropping  of  the  curtain. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  187 


TO  MANNING. 

yamtary  2,  1810. 

Dear  Manning,  —  When  I  last  wrote  to  you,  I 
was  in  lodgings.  I  am  now  in  chambers,  No.  4, 
Inner  Temple  Lane,  where  I  should  be  happy  to  see 
you  any  evening.  Bring  any  of  your  friends  the 
Mandarins  with  you.  I  have  two  sitting-rooms.  I 
call  them  so  par  excellence,  for  you  may  stand,  or 
loll,  or  lean,  or  try  any  posture  in  them  ;  but  they  are 
best  for  sitting,  —  not  squatting  down  Japanese  fash- 
ion, but  in  the  more  decorous  way  which  European 
usage  has  consecrated.  I  have  two  of  these  rooms 
on  the  third  floor,  and  five  sleeping,  cooking,  etc., 
rooms,  on  the  fourth  floor.  In  my  best  room  is  a 
choice  collection  of  the  works  of  Hogarth,  an  Eng- 
lish painter  of  some  humor.  In  my  next  best  are 
shelves  containing  a  small,  but  well-chosen  librar}\ 
My  best  room  commands  a  court,  in  which  there 
are  trees  and  a  pump,  the  water  of  which  is  excellent, 
—  cold  with  brandy,  and  not  very  insipid  without. 
Here  I  hope  to  set  up  my  rest,  and  not  quit  till  Mr. 
Powell,  the  undertaker,  gives  me  notice  that  I  may 
have  possession  of  my  last  lodging.  He  lets  lodgings 
for  single  gentlemen.  I  sent  you  a  parcel  of  books 
by  my  last,  to  give  you  some  idea  of  the  state  of 
European  literature.  There  comes  with  this  two 
volumes,  done  up  as  letters,  of  minor  poetry,  a 
sequel  to  "  Mrs.  Leicester;  "  the  best  you  may  sup- 


1 88  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

pose  mine  ;  the  next  best  are  my  coadjutor's.  You 
may  amuse  yourself  in  guessing  them  out ;  but  I 
must  tell  you  mine  are  but  one  third  in  quantity  of 
the  whole.  So  much  for  a  very  delicate  subject. 
It  is  hard  to  speak  of  one's  self,  etc.  Holcroft  had 
finished  his  life  when  I  wrote  to  you,  and  Hazlitt  has 
since  finished  his  life,  —  I  do  not  mean  his  own  life, 
but  he  has  finished  a  life  of  Holcroft,  which  is  going 
to  press.  Tuthill  is  Dr.  Tuthill.  I  continue  Mr. 
Lamb.  I  have  published  a  little  book  for  children 
on  titles  of  honor ;  and  to  give  them  some  idea  of 
the  difference  of  rank  and  gradual  rising,  I  have 
made  a  little  scale,  supposing  myself  to  receive  the 
following  various  accessions  of  dignity  from  the  king, 
who  is  the  fountain  of  honor,  —  as  at  first,  i ,  Mr. 
C.  Lamb;  2,  C.  Lamb,  Esq. ;  3,  SirC.  Lamb,  Bart. ; 
4,  Baron  Lamb,  of  Stamford;  5,  Viscount  Lamb; 
6,  Earl  Lamb ;  7,  Marquis  Lamb ;  8,  Duke  Lamb. 
It  would  look  like  quibbling  to  carry  it  on  farther, 
and  especially  as  it  is  not  necessary  for  children  to 
go  beyond  the  ordinary  titles  of  sub-regal  dignity  in 
our  own  country,  otherwise  I  have  sometimes  in  my 
dreams  imagined  myself  still  advancing,  as  9th,  King 
Lamb;  loth,  Emperor  Lamb;  nth,  Pope  Innocent, 
—  higher  than  which  is  nothing.  Puns  I  have  not 
made  many  (nor  punch  much)  since  the  date  of 
my  last ;  one  1  cannot  help  relating.  A  constable 
in  Sahsbury  Cathedral  was  telling  me  that  eight 
people  dined  at  the  top  of  the  spire  of  the  cathedral ; 
upon  which  I  remarked  that  they  must  be  very 
sharp-set.  But  in  general  I  cultivate  the  reasoning 
part  of  my   mind    more   than   the   imaginative.      I 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  I69 

am  stuffed  out  so  with  eating  turkey  for  dinner, 
and  another  turkey  for  supper  yesterday  (turkey  in 
Europe  and  turkey  in  Asia),  that  I  can't  jog  on.  It 
is  New  Year  here.  That  is,  it  was  New  Year  half  a 
year  back,  when  I  was  writing  this.  Nothing  puzzles 
me  more  than  time  and  space,  and  yet  nothing 
puzzles  me  less,  for  I  never  think  about  them.  The 
Persian  ambassador  is  the  principal  thing  talked  of 
now.  I  sent  some  people  to  see  him  worship  the 
sun  on  Primrose  Hill  at  half-past  six  in  the  morning, 
28th  November:  but  he  did  not  come,  —  which 
makes  me  think  the  old  fire-worshippers  are  a  sect 
almost  extinct  in  Persia.  The  Persian  ambassador's 
name  is  Shaw  Ali  Mirza.  The  common  people  call 
him  Shaw  Nonsense.  While  I  think  of  it,  I  have 
put  three  letters  besides  my  own  three  into  the 
India  post  for  you,  from  your  brother,  sister,  and 
some  gentleman  whose  name  I  forget.  Will  they, 
have  they,  did  they  come  safe?  The  distance  you 
are  at,  cuts  up  tenses  by  the  root.  I  think  you  said 
you  did  not  know  Kate  *********.  I  express  her 
by  nine  stars,  though  she  is  but  one.  You  must 
have  seen  her  at  her  father's.  Try  and  remember 
her.  Coleridge  is  bringing  out  a  paper  in  weekly 
numbers,  called  the  "  Friend,"  which  I  would  send, 
if  I  could ;  but  the  difficulty  I  had  in  getting  the 
packets  of  books  out  to  you  before  deters  me  ;  and 
you  '11  want  something  new  to  read  when  you  come 
home.  Except  Kate,  I  have  had  no  vision  of  excel- 
lence this  year,  and  she  passed  by  like  the  queen 
on  her  coronation  day ;  you  don't  know  whether 
you  saw  her  or  not.      Kate  is  fifteen;  I  go  about 


190  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

moping,  and  sing  the  old,  pathetic  ballad  I  used  to 
like   in  my  youth,  — 

"  She  's  sweet  fifteen, 
I  'm  one  year  i?iore." 

Mrs.  Bland  sang  it  in  boy's  clothes  the  first  time 
I  heard  it.  I  sometimes  think  the  lower  notes  in 
my  voice  are  like  Mrs.  Bland's.  That  glorious  singer, 
Braham,  one  of  my  lights,  is  fled.  He  was  for  a 
season.  He  was  a  rare  composition  of  the  Jew,  the 
gentleman,  and  the  angel,  yet  all  these  elements 
mixed  up  so  kindly  in  him  that  you  could  not  tell 
which  predominated;  but  he  is  gone,  and  one  Phil- 
lips is  engaged  instead.  Kate  is  vanished,  but  Miss 
Burrell  is  always  to  be  met  with  ! 

"Queens  drop  away,  while  blue-legged  Maukin  thrives, 
And  courtly  Mildred  dies,  while  country  Madge  survives." 

That  is  not  my  poetry,  but  Quarles's  ;  but  have  n't 
you  observed  that  the  rarest  things  are  the  least 
obvious?  Don't  show  anybody  the  names  in  this 
letter.  I  write  confidentially,  and  wish  this  letter 
to  be  considered  as  private.  Hazlitt  has  written  a 
grammar  for  Godwin ;  Godwin  sells  it  bound  up 
with  a  treatise  of  his  own  on  language  :  but  the 
g)-ay  mare  is  the  better  horse.  I  don't  allude  to  Mrs. 
Godwin,  but  to  the  word  grajiimar,  which  comes 
near  to  gray  mare,  if  you  observe,  in  sound.  That 
figure  is  called  paranomasia  in  Greek.  I  am  some- 
times happy  in  it.  An  old  woman  begged  of  me  for 
charity.  "  Ah,  sir,"  said  she,  "  I  have  seen  better 
days  !  "    "  So  have  I,  good  woman,"  I  replied  ;   but 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  191 

I  meant  literally,  days  not  so  rainy  and  overcast  as 
that  on  which  begged,  —  she  meant  more  prosper- 
ous days. 


LI. 

TO  MISS  WORDSWORTH. 

August,  1 8 10. 

Mary  has  left  a  little  space  for  me  to  fill  up  with 
nonsense,  as  the  geographers  used  to  cram  monsters 
in  the  voids  of  the  maps,  and  call  it  Terra  Incognita. 
She  has  told  you  how  she  has  taken  to  water  like  a 
hungry  otter.  I  too  limp  after  her  in  lame  imita- 
tion,^ but  it  goes  against  me  a  little  at  first.  I  have 
been  acquaintance  with  it  now  for  full  four  days, 
and  it  seems  a  moon.  I  am  full  of  cramps  and  rheu- 
matisms, and  cold  internally,  so  that  fire  won't  warm 
me ;  yet  I  bear  all  for  virtue's  sake.  Must  I  then 
leave  you,  gin,  rum,  brandy,  aqua-vitce,  pleasant,  jolly 
fellows?  Damn  temperance  and  he  that  first  in- 
vented it !  —  some  Anti-Noahite.  Coleridge  has 
powdered  his  head,  and  looks  like  Bacchus,  — 
Bacchus  ever  sleek  and  young.  He  is  going  to  turn 
sober,  but  his  clock  has  not  struck  yet ;  meantime 
he  pours  down  goblet  after  goblet,  the  second  to  see 
where  the  first  is  gone,  the  third  to  see  no  harm 
happens  to  the  second,  a  fourth  to  say  there  is  an- 
other coming,  and  a  fifth  to  say  he  is  not  sure  he  is 
the  last.  C.  L. 

1  An  experiment  in  total  abstinence  ;  it  did  not  last  long. 


192  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

LII. 

TO  WORDSWORTH. 

October  19,  18 10. 

Dear  W.,  —  Mary  has  been  very  ill,  which  you 
have  heard,  I  suppose,  from  the  Montagues.  She 
is  very  weak  and  low-spirited  now.  I  was  much 
pleased  with  your  continuation  of  the  "  Essay  on 
Epitaphs."^  It  is  the  only  sensible  thing  which  has 
been  written  on  that  subject,  and  it  goes  to  the 
bottom.  In  particular  I  was  pleased  with  your 
translation  of  that  turgid  epitaph  into  the  plain 
feeling  under  it.  It  is  perfectly  a  test.  But  what 
is  the  reason  we  have  no  good  epitaphs  after  all  ? 

A  very  striking  instance  of  your  position  might  be 
found  in  the  churchyard  of  Ditton-upon-Thames,  if 
you  know  such  a  place.  Ditton-upon-Thames  has 
been  blessed  by  the  residence  of  a  poet  who,  for  love 
or  money,  I  do  not  well  know  which,  has  dignified 
every  gravestone  for  the  last  few  years  with  bran- 
new  verses,  all  different  and  all  ingenious,  with  the 
author's  name  at  the  bottom  of  each.  This  sweet 
Swan  of  Thames  has  so  artfully  diversified  his  strains 
and  his  rhymes  that  the  same  thought  never  occurs 
twice,  —  more  justly,  perhaps,  as  no  thought  ever 
occurs  at  all,  there  was  a  physical  impossibility  that 
the  same  thought  should  recur.  It  is  long  since  I 
saw  and  read  these  inscriptions  ;  but  I  remember  the 

'  Published  in  Coleridge's  "  Friend,"  Feb.  22,  1810. 


LETTERS  OE  CHARLES  LAMB.  193 

impression  was  of  a  smug  ustier  at  his  desk  in  the 
intervals  of  instruction,  levelling  his  pen.  Of  death, 
as  it  consists  of  dust  and  worms,  and  mourners  and 
uncertainty,  he  had  never  thought;  but  the  word 
"death"  he  had  often  seen  separate  and  conjunct 
with  other  words,  till  he  had  learned  to  speak  of  all 
its  attributes  as  glibly  as  Unitarian  Belsham  will  dis- 
cuss you  the  attributes  of  the  word  "  God  "  in  a 
pulpit,  and  will  talk  of  infinity  with  a  tongue  that 
dangles  from  a  skull  that  never  reached  in  thought 
and  thorough  imagination  two  inches,  or  farther  than 
from  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  or  from  the  vestry  to 
the  sounding-board  of  the  pulpit. 

But  the  epitaphs  were  trim  and  sprag,  and  patent, 
and  pleased  the  survivors  of  Thames  Ditton  above 
the  old  mumpsimus  of  "Afflictions  sore."  ...  To 
do  justice,  though,  it  must  be  owned  that  even  the 
excellent  feeling  which  dictated  this  dirge  when  new, 
must  have  suffered  something  in  passing  through  so 
many  thousand  applications,  many  of  them  no  doubt 
quite  misplaced,  as  I  have  seen  in  Islington  church- 
yard (I  think)  an  Epitaph  to  an  Infant  who  died 
"  ^tatis  four  months,"  with  this  seasonable  inscrip- 
tion appended,  "  Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother, 
that  thy  days  may  be  long  in  the  land,"  etc.  Sin- 
cetely  wishing  your  children  long  life  to  honor,  etc., 
I  remain, 

C.  Lamb. 


13 


194  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

LIII. 

TO  WORDSWORTH. 

August  14,  18 14. 

Dear  Wordsworth,  —  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
pleased  I  was  at  the  receipt  of  the  great  armful  of 
poetry  which  you  have  sent  me  :  and  to  get  it 
before  the  rest  of  the  world,  too  !  I  have  gone 
quite  through  with  it,  and  was  thinking  to  have  ac- 
complished that  pleasure  a  second  time  before  I 
wrote  to  thank  you  ;  but  Martin  Burney  came  in  the 
night  (while  we  were  out)  and  made  holy  theft  of  it : 
but  we  expect  restitution  in  a  day  or  two.  It  is  the 
noblest  conversational  poem  ^  I  ever  read,  —  a  day  in 
heaven.  The  part  (or  rather  main  body)  which 
has  left  the  sweetest  odor  on  my  memory  (a  bad 
term  for  the  remains  of  an  impression  so  recent)  is 
the  "Tales  of  the  Churchyard,"  —  the  only  girl 
among  seven  brethren,  born  out  of  due  time,  and 
not  duly  taken  away  again ;  the  deaf  man  and  the 
blind  man  ;  the  Jacobite  and  the  Hanoverian,  whom 
antipathies  reconcile;  the  Scarron-entry  of  the 
rusticating  parson  upon  his  solitude,  —  these  were 
all  new  to  me  too.  My  having  known  the  story  of 
Margaret  (at  the  beginning),  a  very  old  acquaint- 
ance, even  as  long  back  as  when  I  saw  you  first  at 
Stowey,  did  not  make  her  reappearance  less  fresh. 
I  don't  know  what  to  pick  out  of  this  best  of  books 
upon  the  best  subjects  for  partial    naming.     That 

^  The  Excursion. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  195 

gorgeous  sunset  is  famous ;  I  think  it  must  have 
been  the  identical  one  we  saw  on  SaUsbury  Plain 
five  years  ago,  that  drew  PhiUips  from  the  card- 
table,  where  he  had  sat  from  rise  of  that  luminary  to 
its  unequalled  setting.  But  neither  he  nor  I  had 
gifted  eyes  to  see  those  symbols  of  common  things 
glorified,  such  as  the  prophets  saw  them  in  that  sun- 
set, —  the  wheel,  the  potter's  clay,  the  washpot,  the 
wine-press,  the  almond-tree  rod,  the  baskets  of  figs, 
the  four- fold- visaged  head,  the  throne,  and  Him 
that  sat  thereon. 

One  feeling  I  was  particularly  struck  with,  as 
what  I  recognized  so  very  lately  at  Harrow  Church 
on  entering  in  it  after  a  hot  and  secular  day's  pleasure, 
—  the  instantaneous  coolness  and  calming,  almost 
transforming,  properties  of  a  country  church  just 
entered ;  a  certain  fragrance  which  it  has,  either 
from  its  holiness,  or  being  kept  shut  all  the  week,  or 
the  air  that  is  let  in  being  pure  country,  —  exactly 
what  you  have  reduced  into  words ;  but  I  am  feel- 
ing that  which  I  cannot  express.  The  reading 
your  lines  about  it  fixed  me  for  a  time  a  monument 
in  Harrow  Church,  —  do  you  know  it  ?  —  with  its  fine 
long  spire,  white  as  washed  marble,  to  be  seen,  by 
vantage  of  its  high  site,  as  far  as  Salisbury  spire 
itself  almost. 

I  shall  select  a  day  or  two  very  shortly,  when  I  am 
coolest  in  brain,  to  have  a  steady  second  reading, 
which  I  feel  will  lead  to  many  more  ;  for  it  will  be 
a  stock  book  with  me  while  eyes  or  spectacles  shall 
be  lent  me.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  noble  matter 
about  mountain  scenery,  yet  not  so  much  as  to  over- 


196  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

^X)wer  and  discountenance  a  poor  Londoner,  or 
south-countryman  entirely,  —  though  Mary  seems 
to  have  felt  it  occasionally  a  little  too  powerfully ;  for 
it  was  her  remark,  during  reading  it,  that  by  your 
system  it  was  doubtful  whether  a  liver  in  towns  had 
a  soul  to  be  saved.  She  almost  trembled  for  that 
invisible  part  of  us  in  her. 

Save  for  a  late  excursion  to  Harrow,  and  a  day  or 
two  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames  this  summer,  rural 
images  were  fast  fading  from  my  mind,  and  by  the 
wise  provision  of  the  Regent  all  that  was  countri- 
fied in  the  parks  is  all  but  obliterated.  The  very 
colour  of  green  is  vanished  ;  the  whole  surface  of 
Hyde  Park  is  dry,  crumbling  sand  (^Arabia  Are- 
nosd),  not  a  vestige  or  hint  of  grass  ever  having 
grown  there ;  booths  and  drinking-places  go  all 
round  it,  for  a  mile  and  a  half,  I  am  confident, — 
I  might  say  two  miles  in  circuit ;  the  stench  of 
liquors,  bad  tobacco,  dirty  people  and  provisions, 
conquers  the  air,  and  we  are  all  stifled  and  suffo- 
cated in  Hyde  Park.^  Order  after  order  has  been 
issued  by  Lord  Sidmouth  in  the  name  of  the  Regent 
(acting  in  behalf  of  his  royal  father)  for  the  dis- 
persion of  the  varlets ;  but  in  vain.  The  vis  unita 
of  all  the  publicans  in  London,  Westminster,  Mary- 
lebone,  and  miles  round,  is  too  powerful  a  force 
to  put  down.  The  Regent  has  raised  a  phantom 
which  he  cannot  lay.     There  they  '11  stay  probably 

1  Early  in  i8i4the  London  parks  were  thrown  open  to  the 
public,  with  fireworks,  booths,  illuminations,  etc.,  in  celebra- 
tion of  the  peace  between  France  and  England.  It  was  two 
or  three  years  before  they  recovered  their  usual  verdure. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  197 

forever.  The  whole  beauty  of  the  place  is  gone,  — 
that  lake-look  of  the  Serpentine  (it  has  got  foolish 
ships  upon  it)  ;  but  something  whispers  to  have 
confidence  in  Nature  and  its  reviv-al,  — 

"  At  the  coming  of  the  inilder  day. 
These  monuments  shall  all  be  overgrown:" 

Meantime  I  confess  to  have  smoked  one  delicious 
pipe  in  one  of  the  cleanliest  and  goodliest  of  the 
booths,  —  a  tent  rather,  — 

"  Oh,  call  it  not  a  booth  !  " 

erected  by  the  public  spirit  of  Watson,  who  keeps 
the  "  Adam  and  Eve  "  at  Pancras  (the  ale-houses 
have  all  emigrated,  with  their  train  of  bottles,  mugs, 
cork-screws,  waiters,  into  Hyde  Park,  —  whole  ale- 
houses, with  all  their  ale  !)  in  company  with  some  of 
the  Guards  that  had  been  in  France,  and  a  fine 
French  girl,  habited  like  a  princess  of  banditti, 
which  one  of  the  dogs  had  transported  from  the 
Garonne  to  the  Serpentine.  The  unusual  scene  in 
Hyde  Park,  by  candle-light,  in  open  air,  —  good 
tobacco,  bottled  stout,  —  made  it  look  like  an  inter- 
val in  a  campaign,  a  repose  after  battle.  I  almost 
fancied  scars  smarting,  and  was  ready  to  club  a  story 
with  my  comrades  of  some  of  my  lying  deeds. 
After  all,  the  fireworks  were  splendid ;  the  rockets 
in  clusters,  in  trees,  and  all  shapes,  spreading  about 
like  young  stars  in  the  making,  floundering  about  in 
space  (like  unbroke  horses),  till  some  of  Newton's 
calculations  should  fix  them ;  but  then  they  went 
out.     Any  one  who  could  see  'em,  and  the  still  finer 


198  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

showers  of  gloomy  rain-fire  that  fell  sulkily  and 
angrily  from  'em,  and  could  go  to  bed  without 
dreaming  of  the  last  day,  must  be  as  hardened  an 
atheist  as — . 

The  conclusion  of  this  epistle  getting  gloomy,  I 
have  chosen  this  part  to  desire  our  kindest  loves  to 
Mrs.  Wordsworth  and  to  Dorothea.  Will  none  of 
you  ever  be  in  London  again? 

Again  let  me  thank  you  for  your  present,  and 
assure  you  that  fireworks  and  triumphs  have  not  dis- 
tracted me  from  receiving  a  calm  and  noble  enjoy- 
ment from  it  (which  I  trust  I  shall  often),  and  I 
sincerely  congratulate  you  on  its  appearance. 

With  kindest  remembrances  to  you  and  household, 
we  remain,  yours  sincerely, 

C.  Lajvib  and  Sister. 


LIV. 

TO   WORDSWORTH. 

(1815.) 

Dear  Wordsworth,  —  You  have  made  me  very 
proud  with  your  successive  book  presents.^     I  have 

1  In  1815  Wordsworth  published  a  new  edition  of  his 
poems,  with  the  following  title  :  "  Poems  by  William  Words- 
worth;  including  Lyrical  Ballads,  and  the  Miscellaneous 
Pieces  of  ^t^^'^uthor.  With  Additional  Poems,  a  new 
Preface,  and  a  Supplementary  Essay.  In  two  Volumes." 
The  new  poems  were  "  Yarrow  Visited,"  "  The  Force  of 
Prayer,"  "  The  Farmer  of  Tilsbury  Vale,"  "  Laodamia," 
"  Yew-Trees,"  "  A  Night  Piece,"  etc,  and  it  was  chiefly  on 
these  that  Lamb  made  his  comments. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  199 

been  carefully  through  the  two  volumes  to  see  that 
nothing  was  omitted  which  used  to  be  there.  \,A  think 
I  miss  nothing  but  a  character  in  the  antithetic  man- 
ner, which  I  do  not  know  why  you  left  out,  —  the 
moral  to  the  boys  building  the  giant,  the  omission 
whereof  leaves  it,  in  my  mind,  less  complete,  —  and 
one  admirable  line  gone  (or  something  come  instead 
of  it) ,  "  the  stone-chat,  and  the  glancing  sand- 
piper," which  was  a  line  quite  alive.  I  demand 
these  at  your  hand.  I  am  glad  that  you  have  not 
sacrificed  a  verse  to  those  scoundrels.  I  would  not 
have  had  you  offer  up  the  poorest  rag  that  lingered 
upon  the  stripped  shoulders  of  little  Alice  Fell,  to 
have  atoned  all  their  malice ;  I  would  not  have 
given  'em  a  red  cloak  to  save  their  souls.  I  am 
afraid  lest  that  substitution  of  a  shell  (a  flat  falsifi- 
cation of  the  history)  for  the  household  implement, 
as  it  stood  at  first,  was  a  kind  of  tub  thrown  out 
to  the  beast,  or  rather  thrown  out  for  him.  The 
tub  was  a  good  honest  tub  in  its  place,  and  nothing 
could  fairly  be  said  against  it.  You  say  you  made 
the  alteration  for  the  "friendly  reader;"  but  the 
"malicious"  will  take  it  to  himself.  Damn 'em  !  ^^ 
if  you  give  'em  an  inch,  etc.  The  Preface  is  noble, 
and  such  as  you  should  write.  I  wish  I  could  set 
my  name  to  it,  Impriinaiiir ;  but  you  have  set  it 
there  yourself,  and  I  thank  you.  I  had  rather  be 
a  doorkeeper  in  your  margin  than  have  their  proud- 
est text  swelling  with  my  eulogies.  The  poems  in 
the  volumes  which  are  new  to  me  are  so  much  in 
the  old  tone  that  I  hardly  received  them  as  novel- 
ties.    Of  those  of  which  I  had  no  previous  knowl- 


200  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

edge,  the  "  Four  Yew-Trees "  and  the  mysterious 
company  which  you  have  assembled  there  most 
struck  me,  —  "  Death  the  Skeleton,  and  Time  the 
Shadow."  It  is  a  sight  not  for  every  youthful  poet 
to  dream  of;  it  is  one  of  the  last  results  he  must 
have  gone  thinking  on  for  years  for.  "  Laodamia  " 
is  a  very  original  poem,  —  I  mean  original  with 
reference  to  your  own  manner.  You  have  noth- 
ing like  it.  I  should  have  seen  it  in  a  strange 
place,  and  greatly  admired  it,  but  not  suspected  its 
derivation,    y^^ 

Let  me  in  this  place,  for  I  have  writ  you  several 
letters  naming  it,  mention  that  my  brother,  who  is 
a  picture-collector,  has  picked  up  an  undoubtable 
picture  of  Milton.^  He  gave  a  few  shillings  for  it, 
and  could  get  no  history  with  it,  but  that  some  old 
lady  had  had  it  for  a  great  many  years.  Its  age  is 
ascertainable  from  the  state  of  the  canvas,  and  you 
need  only  see  it  to  be  sure  that  it  is  the  original 
of  the  heads  in  the  Tonson  editions,  with  which  we 
are  all  so  well  familiar.  Since  I  saw  you,  I  have 
had  a  treat  in  the  reading  way  which  comes  not 
every  day,  —  the  Latin  poems  of  V.  Bourne,  which 
were  quite  new  to  me.  What  a  heart  that  man 
had,  all  laid  out  upon  town  scenes  !  —  a  proper 
counterpoise  to  some  people's  rural  extravaganzas. 
Why  I  mention  him  is,  that  your  "  Power  of  Music  " 
reminded  me  of  his  poem  of  ''  The  Ballad-singer 
in  the   Seven  Dials."     Do  you  remember  his  epi- 

1  John  Lamb  afterwards  gave  the  picture  to  Charles,  who 
made  it  a  wedding  present  to  Mrs.  Moxon  (Emma  Isola). 
It  is  now  in  the  National   Portrait  Gallery. 


LETTERS  OE  CHARLES  LAMB.  201 

gram  on  the  old  woman  who  taught  Newton  the 
ABC,  which,  after  all,  he  says,  he  hesitates  not  to 
call  Newton's  "  Principia  "  ?  I  was  lately  fatiguing 
myself  with  going  through  a  volume  of  fine  words 
by  Lord  Thurlow,  —  excellent  words ;  and  if  the 
heart  could  live  by  words  alone,  it  could  desire  no 
better  regales.  But  what  an  aching  vacuum  of  mat- 
ter !  I  don't  stick  at  the  madness  of  it,  for  that  is 
only  a  consequence  of  shutting  his  eyes  and  think- 
ing he  is  in  the  age  of  the  old  Elizabeth  poets. 
From  thence  I  turned  to  Bourne.  What  a  sweet, 
unpretending,  pretty-mannered,  matter  fiil  creature, 
sucking  from  every  flower,  making  a  flower  of  every- 
thing, his  diction  all  Latin,  and  his  thoughts  all 
English  !  Bless  him  !  Latin  was  n't  good  enough 
for  him.  Why  wasn't  he  content  with  the  lan- 
guage which  Gay  and  Prior  wrote  in? 

I  am  almost  sorry  that  you  printed  extracts  from' 
those  first  poems,  or  that  you  did  not  print  them 
at  length.  They  do  not  read  to  me  as  they  do 
altogether.  Besides,  they  have  diminished  the 
value  of  the  original  (which  I  possess)  as  a  curi- 
osity. I  have  hitherto  kept  them  distinct  in  my 
mind,  as  referring  to  a  particular  period  of  your  life. 
All  the  rest  of  your  poems  are  so  much  of  a  piece 
they  might  have  been  written  in  the  same  week ; 
these  decidedly  speak  of  an  earlier  period.  They 
tell  more  of  what  you  had  been  reading.  We  were 
glad  to  see  the  poems  "  by  a  female  friend."  ^  The 
one  on  the  Wind  is  masterly,  but  not  new  to  us. 
Being  only  three,  perhaps  you  might  have  clapped 

^  Dorothy  Wordsworth. 


202  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

a  D.  at  the  corner,  and  let  it  have  past  as  a  printer's 
mark  to  the  uninitiated,  as  a  delightful  hint  to  the 
better  instructed,  i  As  it  is,  expect  a  formal  criti- 
cism on  the  poems  of  your  female  friend,  and  she 
must  expect  it.  I  should  have  written  before ;  but 
I  am  cruelly  engaged,  and  like  to  be.  On  Friday 
I  was  at  ofifice  from  ten  in  the  morning  (two  hours 
dinner  excepted)  to  eleven  at  night,  last  night  till 
nine ;  my  business  and  ofifice  business  in  general 
have  increased  so ;  I  don't  mean  I  am  there  every 
night,  but  I  must  expect  a  great  deal  of  it.  1  never 
leave  till  four,  and  do  not  keep  a  holiday  now  once 
in  ten  times,  where  I  used  to  keep  all  red-letter 
days,  and  some  few  days  besides,  which  I  used  to 
dub  Nature's  holidays,  I  have  had  my  day.  I  had 
formerly  little  to  do.  So  of  the  little  that  is  left 
of  life  I  may  reckon  two  thirds  as  dead,  for  time 
that  a  man  may  call  his  own  is  his  life ;  and  hard 
work  and  thinking  about  it  taint  even  the  leisure 
hours,  —  stain  Sunday  with  work-day  contempla- 
tions. This  is  Sunday ;  and  the  headache  I  have 
is  part  late  hours  at  work  the  two  preceding  nights, 
and  part  later  hours  over  a  consoling  pipe  after- 
wards. But  I  find  stupid  acquiescence  coming  over 
me.  I  bend  to  the  yoke,  and  it  is  almost  with 
me  and  my  household  as  with  the  man  and  his 
consort,  — 

"  To  them  each  evening  had  its  glittering  star, 
And  every  sabbath-day  its  golden  sun  1 "  ^ 

to  such  Straits  am  I  driven  for  the  life  of  life.  Time  ! 
Oh  that  from  that  superfluity  of  holiday-leisure  my 

^  Excursion,  book  v. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  203 

youth  wasted,  "Age  might  but  take  some  hours  youth 
wanted  not  "  !  N.  B.  —  I  have  left  off  spirituous 
Hquors  for  four  or  more  months,  with  a  moral  cer- 
tainty of  its  lasting.     Farewell,  dear  Wordsworth  ! 

O  happy  Paris,  seat  of  idleness  and  pleasure  ! 
From  some  returned  English  I  hear  that  not  such 
a  thing  as  a  counting-house  is  to  be  seen  in  her 
streets,  —  scarce  a  desk.  Earthquakes  swallow  up 
this  mercantile  city  and  its  "  gripple  merchants," 
as  Drayton  hath  it,  "  born  to  be  the  curse  of  this 
brave  isle"  !  I  invoke  this,  not  on  account  of  any 
parsimonious  habits  the  mercantile  interest  may 
have,  but,  to  confess  truth,  because  I  am  not  fit  for 
an  office. 

Farewell,  in  haste,  from  a  head  that  is  too  ill 
to  methodize,  a  stomach  to  digest,  and  all  out 
of  tune.     Better   harmonies  await  you  ! 

C.  Lamb. 


LV. 

TO  WORDSWORTH. 

Excuse  this  maddish  letter;    I  am  too  tired  to 

write  m  forma.  .,  .. 

»*v  181 5. 

Dear  Wordsworth,  — -  The  more  I  read  of  your 
two  last  volumes,  the  more  I  feel  it  necessary  to 
make  my  acknowledgments  for  them  in  more  than 
one  short  letter.  The  "  Night  Piece,"  to  which  you 
refer  me,  I  meant  fully  to  have  noticed :^but  the 
fact  is,  I  come  so  fluttering  and  languid  from  busi- 


^ 


204  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

ness,  tired  with  thoughts  of  it,  frightened  with  fears 
of  it,  that  when  I  get  a  few  minutes  to  sit  down  and 
scribble  (an  action  of  the  hand  now  seldom  natural 
to  me,  —  I  mean  voluntary  pen-work) ,  I  lose  all 
presential  memory  of  what  I  had  intended  to  say, 
and  say  what  I  can,  talk  about  Vincent  Bourne  or 
any  casual  image,  instead  of  that  which  I  had  medi- 
tated (by  the  way,  I  must  look  out  V.  B.  for  you). 
■  So  I  had  meant  to  have  mentioned  *'  Yarrow 
Visited,"  with  that  stanza,  "  But  thou  that  didst 
appear  so  fair ;  "  ^  than  which  I  think  no  lovelier 
stanza  can  be  found  in  the  wide  world  of  poetry. 
Yet  the  poem,  on  the  whole,  seems  condemned  to 
leave  behind  it  a  melancholy  of  imperfect  satisfac- 
tion, as  if  you  had  wronged  the  feeling  with  which, 
in  what  preceded  it,  you  had  resolved  never  to  visit 
it,  and  as  if  the  Muse  had  determined,  in  the  most 
delicate  manner,  to  make  you,  and  scarce  make  you, 
feel  it.  Else,  it  is  far  superior  to  the  other,  which 
has  but  one  exquisite  verse  in  it,  —  the  last  but  one, 
or  the  last  two  :  this  is  all  fine,  except,  perhaps,  that 
that  of  "  studious  ease  and  generous  cares"  has  a 
little  tinge  of  the  less  roinantic  about  it.  "■  The  Far- 
mer of  Tilsbury  Vale  "  is  a  charming  counterpart  to 
"  Poor  Susan,"  with  the  addition  of  that  delicacy 
towards  aberrations  from  the  strict  path  which  is  so 
fine  in  the  "  Old  Thief  and  the  Boy  by  his  side," 
which  always  brings  water  into  my  eyes.     Perhaps  it 

4'!* 
^  "  But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair    \  ' 

To  fond  imagination, 

Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 

Her  delicate  creation." 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  205 

is  the  worse  for  being  a  repetition;  "Susan"  stood 
for  the  representative  of  poor  Riis  in  Urbe.  There 
was  quite  enough  to  stamp  the  moral  of  the  thing 
never  to  be  forgotten, —  "  bright  volumes  of  vapor," 
etc.  The  last  verse  of  Susan  was  to  be  got  rid  of,  at 
all  events.  It  threw  a  kind  of  dubiety  upon  Susan's 
moral  conduct.  Susan  is  a  servant-maid.  I  see  her 
trundling  her  mop,  and  contemplating  the  whirling 
phenomenon  through  blurred  optics  ;  but  to  term 
her  "  a  poor  outcast "  seems  as  much  as  to  say  that 
poor  Susan  was  no  better  than  she  should  be,  —  which 
I  trust  was  not  what  you  meant  to  express.  Robin 
Goodfellow  supports  himself  without  that  stick  of  a 
moral  w^hich  you  have  throwTi  away ;  but  how  I  can 
be  brought  in  felo  de  omittendo  for  that  ending  to 
the  Boy-builders  ^  is  a  mystery.  I  can't  say  posi- 
tively now,  I  only  know  that  no  line  oftener  or 
readier  occurs  than  that  "  Light-hearted  boys,  I  will 
build  up  a  Giant  with  you."  It  comes  naturally 
with  a  warm  holiday  and  the  freshness  of  the  blood. 
It  is  a  perfect  summer  amulet,  that  I  tie  round  my 
legs  to  quicken  their  motion  when  I  go  out  a-may- 
ing.  (N.  B.)  I  don't  often  go  out  a  maying ; 
7niist  is  the  tense  with  me  now.  Do  you  take  the 
pun  ?  Young  Romilly  is  divine,  the  reasons  of  his 
mother's  grief  being  remediless,  —  I  never  saw 
parental  love  carried  up  so  high,  towering  above  the 
other  loves,  —  Shakspeare  had  done  something  for 
the  filial  in  Cordelia,  and,  by  implication,  for  the 
fatherly  too  in  Lear's  resentment ;  he  left  it  for  you 
to  explore  the  depths  of  the  maternal  heart.     I  get 

1  Better  known  as  "Rural  Architecture." 


2o6  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Stupid  and  flat,  and  flattering ;  what 's  the  use  of 
telling  you  what  good  things  you  have  written,  or  — 
I  hope  I  may  add  —  that  I  know  them  to  be  good  ? 
Apropos,\\hQn  I  first  opened  upon  the  just-mentioned 
poem,  in  a  careless  tone  I  said  to  Mary,  as  if  putting 
a  riddle,  "  What  is  good  for  a  bootless  bene?  "  ^  To 
which,  with  infinite  presence  of  mind  (as  the  jest- 
book  has  it)  she  answered,  "  A  shoeless  pea."  It 
was  the  first  joke  she  ever  made.  Joke  the  second 
I  make.  You  distinguish  well,  in  your  old  preface, 
between  the  verses  of  Dr.  Johnson,  of  the  "  Man  in 
the  Strand,"  and  that  from  "The  Babes  in  the 
Wood."  I  was  thinking  whether,  taking  your  own 
glorious  lines,  — 

"  And  from  the  love  which  was  in  her  soul 
For  her  youthful  Romilly," 

which,  by  the  love  I  bear  my  own  soul,  I  think  have 
no  parallel  in  any  of  the  best  old  ballads,  and  just 
altering  it  to,  — 

"And  from  the  great  respect  she  felt 
For  Sir  Samuel  Romilly," 

would  not  have  explained  the  boundaries  of  prose 
expression  and  poetic  feeling  nearly  as  well.  Ex- 
cuse my  levity  on  such  an  occasion.  I  never  felt 
deeply  in  my  life  if  that  poem  did  not  make  me, 
both  lately  and  when  I  read  it  in  MS.    No  alderman 

1  The  first  line  of  the  poem  on  Bolton  Abbey  :  — 

"  '  What  is  good  for  a  bootless  bene  ? ' 

With  these  dark  words  begins  my  tale  ; 
And  their  meaning  is,  whence  can  comfort  spring 
When  Prayer  is  of  no  avail  ?  " 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  207 

ever  longed  after  a  haunch  of  buck  venison  more 
than  I  for  a  spiritual  taste  of  that  "  White  Doe  "  you 
promise.  I  am  sure  it  is  superlative,  or  will  be  when 
dressed,  i.  <?.,  printed.  All  things  read  raw  to  me  in 
IMS. ;  to  compare  magna  parvis,  I  cannot  endure  my 
own  writings  in  that  state.  The  only  one  which  I 
think  would  not  very  much  win  upon  me  in  print  is 
"  Peter  Bell ;  "  but  I  am  not  certain.  You  ask  me 
about  your  preface.  I  like  both  that  and  the 
supplement,  without  an  exception.  The  account  of 
what  you  mean  by  imagination  is  very  valuable  to 
me.  It  will  help  me  to  like  some  things  in  poetry 
better,  which  is  a  little  humiliating  in  me  to  confess. 
I  thought  I  could  not  be  instructed  in  that  science 
(I  mean  the  critical),  as  I  once  heard  old  ob- 
scene, beasdy  Peter  Pindar,  in  a  dispute  on  jNIilton, 
say  he  thought  that  if  he  had  reason  to  value  him- 
self upon  one  thing  more  than  another,  it  was  in 
knowing  what  good  verse  was.  Who  looked  over 
your  proof-sheets  and  left  ordebo  in  that  line  of 
Virgil? 

]\Iy  brother's  picture  of  ISIilton  is  very  finely 
painted,  —  that  is,  it  might  have  been  done  by  a  hand 
next  to  Vandyke's.  It  is  the  genuine  Milton,  and 
an  object  of  quiet  gaze  for  the  half-hour  at  a  time. 
Yet  though  I  am  confident  there  is  no  better  one  of 
him,  the  face  does  not  quite  answer  to  Milton. 
There  is  a  tinge  oi petit  {ox  petite,  how  do  you  spell 
it?)  querulousness  about  it;  yet,  hang  it  !  now  I  re- 
member better,  there  is  not,  —  it  is  calm,  melancholy, 
and  poetical.  One  of  the  copies  of  the  poems  you 
sent  has  precisely  the  same  pleasant  blending  of  a 


2o8  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

sheet  of  second  volume  with  a  sheet  of  first.  I  think 
it  was  page  245  ;  but  I  sent  it  and  had  it  rectified. 
It  gave  me,  in  the  first  impetus  of  cutting  the  leaves, 
just  such  a  cold  squelch  as  going  down  a  plausible 
turning  and  suddenly  reading  "  No  thoroughfare." 
Robinson's  is  entire ;  I  wish  you  would  write  more 
criticism  about  Spencer,  etc.  I  think  I  could  say 
something  about  him  myself;  but,  Lord  bless  me  ! 
these  "  merchants  and  their  spicy  drugs,"  which  are 
so  harmonious  to  sing  of,  they  lime-twig  up  my  poor 
soul  and  body  till  I  shall  forget  I  ever  thought  my- 
self a  bit  of  a  genius  !  I  can't  even  put  a  few 
thoughts  on  paper  for  a  newspaper.  I  engross  when 
I  should  pen  a  paragraph.  Confusion  blast  all  mer- 
cantile transactions,  all  traffic,  exchange  of  commod- 
ities, intercourse  between  nations,  all  the  consequent 
civilization,  and  wealth,  and  amity,  and  link  of  soci- 
ety, and  getting  rid  of  prejudices,  and  knowledge  of 
the  face  of  the  globe ;  and  rot  the  very  firs  of  the 
forest  that  look  so  romantic  alive,  and  die  into 
desks !      Vale. 

Yours,  dear  W.,  and  all  yours, 

C.  Lamb. 

LVL 

TO   SOUTHEY. 

May  6,  1815 
Dear  Southey,  —  I  have  received  from  Longman 
a -copy  of  "Roderick,"  with  the  author's  compli- 
ments, for  which  I  much  thank  you.  I  don't  know 
where  I  shall  put  all  the  noble  presents  I  have  lately 
received  in  that  way ;  the  "  Excursion,"  Wordsworth's 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  209 

two  last  volumes,  and  now  "  Roderick,"  have  come 
pouring  in  upon  me  like  some  irruption  from  Heli- 
con. The  story  of  the  brave  Maccabee  was  already, 
you  may  be  sure,  familiar  to  me  in  all  its  parts.  I 
have,  since  the  receipt  of  your  present,  read  it  quite 
through  again,  and  with  no  diminished  pleasure.  I 
don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  say  that  it  has  given 
me  more  pleasure  than  any  of  your  long  poems. 
"  Kehama  "  is  doubtless  more  powerful,  but  I  don't 
feel  that  firm  footing  in  it  that  I  do  in  "  Roderick  ;  " 
my  imagination  goes  sinking  and  floundering  in  the 
vast  spaces  of  unopened-before  systems  and  faiths ; 
I  am  put  out  of  the  pale  of  my  old  sympathies ;  my 
moral  sense  is  almost  outraged ;  I  can't  believe,  or 
with  horror  am  made  to  believe,  such  desperate 
chances  against  omnipotences,  such  disturbances  of 
faith  to  the  centre.  The  more  potent,  the  more 
painful  the  spell.  Jove  and  his  brotherhood  of 
gods,  tottering  with  the  giant  assailings,  I  can  bear, 
for  the  soul's  hopes  are  not  struck  at  in  such  con- 
tests ;  but  your  Oriental  almighties  are  too  much 
types  of  the  intangible  prototype  to  be  meddled  with 
without  shuddering.  One  never  connects  what  are 
called  the  "  attributes  "  with  Jupiter.  I  mention  only 
what  diminishes  my  delight  at  the  wonder-workings 
of"  Kehama,"  not  what  impeaches  its  power,  which 
I  confess  with  trembling. 

But  "  Roderick  "  is  a  comfortable  poem.  It  re- 
minds me  of  the  delight  I  took  in  the  first  reading 
of  the  "  Joan  of  Arc."  It  is  maturer  and  better 
than  that,  though  not  better  to  me  now  than  that 
was  then.  It  suits  me  better  than  "  Madoc."  lam 
14 


2IO  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

at  home  in  Spain  and  Christendom.  I  have  a  timid 
imagination,  I  am  afraid  ;  I  do  not  wilUngly  admit 
of  strange  beliefs  or  out-of-the-way  creeds  or  places. 
I  never  read  books  of  travel,  at  least  not  farther 
than  Paris  or  Rome.  I  can  just  endure  Moors, 
because  of  their  connection  as  foes  with  Christians ; 
but  Abyssinians,  Ethiops,  Esquimaux,  Dervises,  and 
all  that  tribe,  I  hate  ;  I  believe  I  fear  them  in  some 
manner.  A  Mahometan  turban  on  the  stage,  though 
enveloping  some  well-known  face  (Mr.  Cook  or  Mr. 
Maddox,  whom  I  see  another  day  good  Christian 
and  English  waiters,  innkeepers,  etc.),  does  not  give 
me  pleasure  unalloyed.  I  am  a  Christian,  English- 
man, Londoner,  Templar.  God  help  me  when  I 
come  to  put  off  these  snug  relations,  and  to  get 
abroad  into  the  world  to  come  !  I  shall  be  like 
the  crow  on  the  sand,  as  Wordsworth  has  it ;  but  I 
won't  think  on  it,  —  no  need,  I  hope,  yet. 

The  parts  I  have  been  most  pleased  with,  both  on 
first  and  second  readings,  perhaps,  are  Florinda's 
palliation  of  Roderick's  crime,  confessed  to  him  in 
his  disguise  ;  the  retreat  of  Pelayo's  family  first  dis- 
covered ;  his  being  made  king,  —  "  For  acclamation 
one  form  must  serve,  more  solemn  for  the  breach  of 
old  observances y  Roderick's  vow  is  extremely  fine, 
and  his  blessing  on  the  vow  of  Alphonso,  — 

"Towards  the  troop  he  spread  his  arms, 
As  if  the  expanded  soul  diffused  itself. 
And  carried  to  all  spirits,  with  the  act, 
Its  affluent  inspiration." 

It  struck  me  forcibly  that  the  feeling  of  these  last 
lines  might  have  been  suggested  to  you  by  the  Car- 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  2ii 

toon  of  Paul  at  Athens.  Certain  it  is  that  a  better 
motto  or  guide  to  that  famous  attitude  can  nowhere 
be  found.  I  shall  adopt  it  as  explanatory  of  that 
violent  but  dignified  motion. 

I  must  read  again  Landor's  "Julian;"  I  have 
not  read  it  some  time.  I  think  he  must  have  failed 
in  Roderick,  for  I  remember  nothing  of  him,  nor  of 
any  distinct  character  as  a  character,  —  only  fine- 
sounding  passages.  I  remember  thinking  also  he 
had  chosen  a  point  of  time  after  the  event,  as  it 
were,  for  Roderick  survives  to  no  use ;  but  my 
memory  is  weak,  and  I  will  not  wrong  a  fine  poem 
by  trusting  to  it. 

The  notes  to  your  poem  I  have  not  read  again  ; 
but  it  will  be  a  take-downable  book  on  my  shelf,  and 
they  will  serve  sometimes  at  breakfast,  or  times  too 
light  for  the  text  to  be  duly  appreciated,  —  though 
some  of  'em,  one  of  the  serpent  Penance,  is  serious 
enough,  now  I  think  on  't. 

Of  Coleridge  I  hear  nothing,  nor  of  the  Morgans. 
I  hope  to  have  him  like  a  reappearing  star,  stand- 
ing up  before  me  some  time  when  least  expected  in 
London,  as  has  been  the  case  whilere. 

I  am  doing  nothing  (as  the  phrase  is)  but  reading 
presents,  and  walk  away  what  of  the  day-hours  I  can 
get  from  hard  occupation.  Pray  accept  once  more 
my  hearty  thanks  and  expression  of  pleasure  for 
your  remembrance  of  me.  My  sister  desires  her 
kind  respects  to  Mrs.  S.  and  to  all  at  Keswick. 
Yours  truly, 

C.  LAiNf5. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


LVII. 

TO  MISS   HUTCHINSON.i 

October  19,  181 5. 
Dear  Miss  H.,  —  I  am  forced  to  be  the  replier  to 
your  letter,  for  Mary  has  been  ill,  and  gone  from 
home  these  five  weeks  yesterday.  She  has  left  me 
very  lonely  and  very  miserable.  I  stroll  about,  but 
there  is  no  rest  but  at  one's  own  fireside  ;  and  there 
is  no  rest  for  me  there  now.  I  look  forward  to  the 
worse  half  being  past,  and  keep  up  as  well  as  I  can. 
She  has  begun  to  show  some  favorable  symptoms. 
The  return  of  her  disorder  has  been  frightfully  soon 
this  time,  with  scarce  a  six-months'  interval.  I  am 
almost  afraid  my  worry  of  spirits  about  the  E.  I. 
House  was  partly  the  cause  of  her  illness ;  but  one 
always  imputes  it  to  the  cause  next  at  hand,  —  more 
probably  it  comes  from  some  cause  we  have  no  con- 
trol over  or  conjecture  of.  It  cuts  sad  great  slices 
out  of  the  time,  the  little  time,  we  shall  have  to  live 
together.  I  don't  know  but  the  recurrence  of  these 
illnesses  might  help  me  to  sustain  her  death  better 
than  if  we  had  had  no  partial  separations.  But  I 
won't  talk  of  death.  I  will  imagine  us  immortal,  or 
forget  that  we  are  otherwise.  By  God's  blessing,  in 
a  few  weeks  we  may  be  making  our  meal  together,  or 
sitting  in  the  front  row  of  the  pit  at  Drury  Lane,  or 
taking  our  evening  walk  past  the  theatres,  to  look  at 
the  outside  of  them,  at  least,  if  not  to  be  tempted 

1  Mrs.  Wordsworth's  sister.  • 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  213 

in.  Then  we  forget  we  are  assailable ;  we  are 
strong  for  the  time  as  rocks,  —  "  the  wind  is  tem- 
pered to  the  shorn  Lambs."  Poor  C.  Lloyd  and 
poor  Priscilla  !  I  feel  I  hardly  feel  enough  for  him  ; 
my  own  calamities  press  about  me,  and  involve  me 
in  a  thick  integument  not  to  be  reached  at  by  other 
folks'  misfortunes.  But  I  feel  all  I  can,  all  the 
kindness  I  can,  towards  you  all.  God  bless  you  ! 
I  hear  nothing  from  Coleridge. 

Yours  truly, 

C.  Lamb. 

LVIIL 

TO   MANNING. 

December  2^,  181 5. 
Dear  old  Friend  and  Absentee,  —  This  is  Christ- 
mas Day,  181 5,  with  us  ;  what  it  may  be  with  you  I 
don't  know,  —  the  1 2th  of  June  next  year,  perhaps ; 
and  if  it  should  be  the  consecrated  season  with  you, 
I  don't  see  how  you  can  keep  it.  You  have  no 
turkeys  \  you  would  not  desecrate  the  festival  by 
offering  up  a  withered  Chinese  bantam,  instead  of 
the  savoury  grand  Norfolcian  holocaust,  that  smokes 
all  around  my  nostrils  at  this  moment  from  a  thou- 
sand firesides.  Then  what  puddings  have  you? 
Where  will  you  get  holly  to  stick  in  your  churches, 
or  churches  to  stick  your  dried  tea-leaves  (that 
must  be  the  substitute)  in?  What  memorials  you 
can  have  of  the  holy  time,  I  see  not.  A  chopped 
missionary  or  two  may  keep  up  the  thin  idea  of 
Lent  and  the  wilderness ;   but  what  standing  evi- 


214  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

dence  have  you  of  the  Nativity?  'T  is  our  rosy- 
cheeked,  homestalled  divines,  whose  faces  shine  to 
the  tune  of  unto  us  a  child  was  born,  —  faces  fragrant 
with  the  mince-pies  of  half  a  century,  that  alone  can 
authenticate  the  cheerful  mystery.  I  feel,  I  feel  my 
bowels  refreshed  with  the  holy  tide ;  my  zeal  is 
great  against  the  unedified  heathen.  Down  with  the 
Pagodas;  down  with  the  idols,  —  Ching-chong-fo 
and  his  foolish  priesthood  !  Come  out  of  Babylon, 
oh  my  friend,  for  her  time  is  come,  and  the  child 
that  is  native,  and  the  Proselyte  of  her  gates,  shall 
kindle  and  smoke  together  !  And  in  sober  sense 
what  makes  you  so  long  from  among  us,  Manning? 
You  must  not  expect  to  see  the  same  England  again 
which  you  left. 

Empires  have  been  overturned,  crowns  trodden 
into  dust,  the  face  of  the  Western  world  quite 
changed ;  your  friends  have  all  got  old,  those  you 
left  blooming,  myself  (who  am  one  of  the  few  thct 
remember  you)  —  those  golden  hairs  which  you  rec- 
ollect my  taking  a  pride  in,  turned  to  silvery  and 
gray.  Mary  has  been  dead  and  buried  many  years  ; 
she  desired  to  be  buried  in  the  silk  gown  you 
sent  her.  Rickman,  that  you  remember  active  and 
strong,  now  walks  out  supported  by  a  servant-maid 
and  a  stick.  Martin  Burney  is  a  very  old  man. 
The  other  day  an  aged  woman  knocked  at  my  door 
and  pretended  to  my  acquaintance.  It  was  long  be- 
fore I  had  the  most  distant  cognition  of  her ;  but  at 
last  together  we  made  her  out  to  be  Louisa,  the 
daughter  of  Mrs.  Topham,  formerly  Mrs.  Morton, 
who  had  been  Mrs.  Reynolds,  formerly  Mrs.  Kenney, 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  215 

whose  first  husband  was  Holcroft,  the  dramatic 
writer  of  the  last  century.  St.  Paul's  church  is  a 
heap  of  ruins ;  the  Monument  is  n't  half  so  high  as 
you  knew  it,  divers  parts  being  successively  taken 
down  which  the  ravages  of  time  had  rendered  dan- 
gerous ;  the  horse  at  Charing  Cross  is  gone,  no  one 
knows  whither,  —  and  all  this  has  taken  place  while 
you  have  been  settling  whether  Ho-hing-tong  should 

be  spelled  with  a or  a .    For  aught  I  see, 

you  had  almost  as  well  remain  where  you  are,  and 
not  come,  like  a  Struldbrug,  into  a  world  where  few 
were  born  when  you  went  away.  Scarce  here  and 
there  one  will  be  able  to  make  out  your  face  ;  all 
your  opinions  will  be  out  of  date,  your  jokes  obso- 
lete, your  puns  rejected  with  fastidiousness  as  wit  of 
the  last  age.  Your  way  of  mathematics  has  already 
given  way  to  a  new  method  which,  after  all,  is,  I  be- 
lieve, the  old  doctrine  of  Maclaurin  new-vamped  up 
with  what  he  borrowed  of  the  negative  quantity  of 
fluxions  from  Euler. 

Poor  Godwin  !     I  was  passing  his  tomb  the  other 
day  in  Cripplegate    churchyard.     There  are   some 

verses   upon  it,  written   by   INIiss ,  which  if  I 

thought  good  enough  I  would  send  you.  He  was 
one  of  those  who  would  have  hailed  your  return,  not 
with  boisterous  shouts  and  clamors,  but  with  the 
complacent  gratulations  of  a  philosopher  anxious  to 
promote  knowledge,  as  leading  to  happiness ;  but 
his  systems  and  his  theories  are  ten  feet  deep  in 
Cripplegate  mould.  Coleridge  is  just  dead,  having 
lived  just  long  enough  to  close  the  eyes  of  ^^'ords- 
worth,  who  paid  the  debt  to  nature  but  a  week  or 


2l6  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

two  before.  Poor  Col.,  but  two  days  before  he 
died  he  wrote  to  a  bookseller  proposmg  an  epic 
poem  on  the  "Wandering  of  Cain,"  in  twenty-four 
books.  It  is  said  he  has  left  behind  him  more  than 
forty  thousand  treatises  in  criticism,  metaphysics, 
and  divinity ;  but  few  of  them  in  a  state  of  comple- 
tion. They  are  now  destined,  perhaps,  to  wrap  up 
spices.  You  see  what  mutation  the  busy  hand  of 
Time  has  produced,  while  you  have  consumed  in 
foolish,  voluntary  exile  that  time  which  might  have 
gladdened  your  friends,  benefited  your  country  — 
But  reproaches  are  useless.  Gather  up  the  wretched 
relics,  my  friend,  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  come  to 
your  old  home.  I  will  rub  my  eyes  and  try  to 
recognize  you.  We  will  shake  withered  hands  to- 
gether, and  talk  of  old  things,  —  of  St.  Mary's  church 
and  the  barber's  opposite,  where  the  young  students 
in  mathematics  used  to  assemble.  Poor  Crisp,  that 
kept  it  afterwards,  set  up  a  fruiterer's  shop  in 
Trumpington  Street,  and  for  aught  I  know  resides 
there  still ;  for  I  saw  the  name  up  in  the  last  journey 
I  took  there  with  my  sister  just  before  she  died.  I 
suppose  you  heard  that  I  had  left  the  India  House 
and  gone  into  the  Fishmongers'  Almshouses  over  the 
bridge.  I  have  a  little  cabin  there,  small  and 
homely ;  but  you  shall  be  welcome  to  it.  You  like 
oysters,  and  to  open  them  yourself;  I  'U  get  you 
some  if  you  come  in  oyster  time.  Marshall,  God- 
win's old  friend,  is  still  alive,  and  talks  of  the  faces 
you  used  to  make.-^ 

Come  as  soon  as  you  can.  C.  Lamb. 

1  The  reversal  of  this  serio-humorous  mingling  of  fiction 
an/'  f"\ec..at  will  be  found  in  the  next  lettf^r. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  217 

LIX. 

TO   MANNING. 

December  26,  1S15. 
Dear  Manning,  —  Following  your  brother's  exam- 
ple, I  have  just  ventured  one  letter  to  Canton,  and  am 
now  hazarduig  another  (not  exactly  a  duplicate)  to 
St.  Helena.  The  first  was  full  of  unprobable  roman- 
tic fictions,  fitting  the  remoteness  of  the  mission  it 
goes  upon ;  in  the  present  I  mean  to  confine  myself 
nearer  to  truth  as  you  come  nearer  home.  A  cor- 
respondence with  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth 
necessarily  involves  in  it  some  heat  of  fancy  ;  it  sets 
the  brain  agoing ;  but  I  can  think  on  the  half-way 
house  tranquilly.  Your  friends,  then,  are  not  all 
dead  or  grown  forgetful  of  you  through  old  age,  — 
as  that  lying  letter  asserted,  anticipating  rather  what 
must  happen  if  you  keep  tarrying  on  forever  on  the 
skirts  of  creation,  as  there  seemed  a  danger  of  your 
doing,  —  but  they  are  all  tolerably  well,  and  in  full 
and  perfect  comprehension  of  what  is  meant  by 
Manning's  coming  home  again.  Mrs.  Kenney  never 
let  her  tongue  run  riot  more  than  in  remembrances 
of  you.  Fanny  expends  herself  in  phrases  that  can 
only  be  justified  by  her  romantic  nature.  Mary  re- 
serves a  portion  of  your  silk,  not  to  be  buried  in  (as 
the  false  nuncio  asserts) ,  but  to  make  up  spick  and 
span  into  a  bran-new  gown  to  wear  when  you  come. 
I  am  the  same  as  when  you  knew  me,  almost  to  a 
surfeiting  identity.     This  very  night  I  am  going  to 


2l8  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

leave  off  tobacco  !  Surely  there  must  be  some  other 
world  in  which  this  unconquerable  purpose  shall  be 
realized.  The  soul  hath  not  her  generous  aspirings 
implanted  in  her  in  vain.  One  that  you  knew,  and 
I  think  the  only  one  of  those  friends  we  knew  much 
of  in  common,  has  died  in  earnest.  Poor  Priscilla  ! 
Her  brother  Robert  is  also  dead,  and  several  of  the 
grown-up  brothers  and  sisters,  in  the  compass  of  a 
very  few  years.  Death  has  not  otherwise  meddled 
much  in  families  that  I  know.  Not  but  he  has 
his  horrid  eye  upon  us,  and  is  whetting  his  infernal 
feathered  dart  every  instant,  as  you  see  him  truly 
pictured  in  that  impressive  moral  picture,  "  The 
good  man  at  the  hour  of  death."  I  have  in  trust 
to  put  in  the  post  four  letters  from  Diss,  and  one 
from  Lynn,  to  St.  Helena,  which  I  hope  will  accom- 
pany this  safe,  and  one  from  Lynn,  and  the  one  be- 
fore spoken  of  from  me,  to  Canton.  But  we  all  hope 
that  these  letters  may  be  waste  paper.  I  don't  know 
why  I  have  foreborne  writing  so  long ;  but  it  is  such 
a  forlorn  hope  to  send  a  scrap  of  paper  straggUng 
over  wide  oceans.  And  yet  I  know  when  you  come 
home,  I  shall  have  you  sitting  before  me  at  our  fire- 
side just  as  if  you  had  never  been  away.  In  such  an 
instant  does  the  return  of  a  person  dissipate  all  the 
weight  of  imaginary  perplexity  from  distance  of  time 
and  space  !  I  '11  promise  you  good  oysters.  Cory 
is  dead,  that  kept  the  shop  opposite  St.  Dunstan's, 
but  the  tougher  materials  of  the  shop  survive  the 
perishing  frame  of  its  keeper.  Oysters  continue  to 
flourish  there  under  as  good  auspices.  Poor  Cory  ! 
But  if  you  will  absent  yourself  twenty  years  together, 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  219 

you  must  not  expect  numerically  the  same  population 
to  congratulate  your  return  which  wetted  the  sea- 
beach  with  their  tears  when  you  went  away.  Have 
you  recovered  the  breathless  stone-staring  astonish- 
ment into  which  you  must  have  been  thrown  upon 
learning  at  landing  that  an  Emperor  of  France  was 
living  at  St.  Helena  ?  What  an  event  in  the  solitude 
of  the  seas,  —  like  finding  a  fish's  bone  at  the  top 
of  Plinlimmon ;  but  these  things  are  nothing  in 
our  Western  world.  Novelties  cease  to  affect. 
Come  and  try  what  your  presence  can. 
God  bless  you  !     Your  old  friend, 

C.  Lamb. 


LX. 

TO   WORDSWORTH 

April  9,  1816. 
Dear  Wordsworth,  —  Thanks  for  the  books  you 
have  given  me,  and  for  all  the  books  you  mean  to 
give  me.  I  will  bind  up  the  "  Political  Sonnets  " 
and  "Ode"  according  to  your  suggestion.  I  have 
not  bound  the  poems  yet ;  I  wait  till  people  have 
done  borrowing  them.  I  think  I  shall  get  a  chain 
and  chain  them  to  my  shelves,  more  Bodleiano,  and 
people  may  come  and  read  them  at  chain's  length. 
For  of  those  who  borrow,  some  read  slow ;  some 
mean  to  read  but  don't  read  ;  and  some  neither 
read  nor  meant  to  read,  but  borrow  to  leave  you  an 
opinion  of  their  sagacity.  I  must  do  my  money- 
borrowing  friends  the  justice  to  say  that  there  is 
nothing  of  this  caprice  or  wantonness  of  alienation  in 


2  20  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

them  ;  when  they  borrow  my  money  they  never  fail 
to  make  use  of  it.  Coleridge  has  been  here  about  a 
fortnight.  His  health  is  tolerable  at  present,  though 
beset  with  temptations.  In  the  first  place,  the  Cov- 
ent  Garden  Manager  has  declined  accepting  his 
Tragedy,^  though  (having  read  it)  I  see  no  reason 
upon  earth  why  it  might  not  have  run  a  very  fair 
chance,  though  it  certainly  wants  a  prominent  part 
for  a  Miss  O'Neil  or  a  Mr.  Kean.  However,  he  is 
going  to  write  to-day  to  Lord  Byron  to  get  it  to 
Drury.  Should  you  see  Mrs.  C,  who  has  just  writ- 
ten to  C.  a  letter,  which  I  have  given  him,  it  will  be 
as  well  to  say  nothing  about  its  fate  till  some  answer 
is  shaped  from  Drury.  He  has  two  volumes  printing 
together  at  Bristol,  both  finished  as  far  as  the  com- 
position goes ;  the  latter  containing  his  fugitive 
poems,  the  former  his  Literary  Life.  Nature,  who 
conducts  every  creature  by  instinct  to  its  best  end, 
has  skilfully  directed  C.  to  take  up  his  abode  at  a 
Chemist's  Laboratory  in  Norfolk  Street.  She  might 
as  well  have  sent  a  Helluo  Librorum  for  cure  to  the 
Vatican.  God  keep  him  inviolate  among  the  traps 
and  pitfalls  !     He  has  done  pretty  well  as  yet.^ 

Tell  Miss  Hutchinson  my  sister  is  every  day  wish- 
ing to  be  quietly  sitting  down  to  answer  her  very  kind 
letter ;  but  while  C.  stays  she  can  hardly  find  a  quiet 
time.     God  bless  him  ! 

Tell  Mrs.  Wordsworth  her  postscripts  are  always 
agreeable.  They  are  legible  too.  Your  manual- 
graphy  is  terrible,  —  dark  as  Lycophron.     "  Likeli- 

1  Zapolya. 

2  Lamb  alludes,  of  course,  to  Coleridge's  opium  habit. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  221 

hood,"  for  instance,  is  thus  typified.  ...  I  should 
not  wonder  if  the  constant  making  out  of  such  para- 
graphs is  the  cause  of  that  weakness  in  Mrs.  W.'s 
eyes,  as  she  is  tenderly  phased  to  express  it.  Dor- 
othy, I  hear,  has  mounted  spectacles ;  so  you  have 
deoculated  two  of  your  dearest  relations  in  life. 
Well,  God  bless  you,  and  continue  to  give  you 
power  to  write  with  a  finger  of  power  upon  our 
hearts  what  you  fail  to  impress,  in  corresponding 
lucidness,  upon  our  outward  eyesight ! 

Mary's  love  to  all ;  she  is  quite  well. 

I  am  called  off  to  do  the  deposits  on  Cotton 
Wool.  But  why  do  I  relate  this  to  you,  who  want 
faculties  to  comprehend  the  great  mystery  of  de- 
posits, of  interest,  of  warehouse  rent,  and  contingent 
fund  ?     Adieu  ! 

C.  Lamb. 


LXI. 

TO  WORDSWORTH. 

April  26,  18 16. 

Dear  W.,  —  I  have  just  finished  the  pleasing  task 
of  correcting  the  revise  of  the  poems  and  letter.^  I 
hope  they  will  come  out  faultless.  One  blunder  I 
saw  and  shuddered  at.     The  hallucinating  rascal  had 

1  Wordsworth's  "  Letter  to  a  Friend  of  Burns  "  (London, 
1816). 

"  Wordsworth  had  been  consulted  by  a  friend  of  Burns  as 
to  the  best  mode  of  vindicating  the  reputation  of  the  poet, 
which,  it  was  alleged,  had  been  much  injured  by  the  publica- 
tion of  Dr.  Currie's  '  Life  and  Correspondence  of  Burns.'  "  — 

AlNGER. 


222  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

printed  battered  for  battened,  this  last  not  conveying 
any  distinct  sense  to  his  gaping  soul.  The  Reader 
(as  they  call  'em)  had  discovered  it,  and  given  it  the 
marginal  brand ;  but  the  ftibstitutory  n  had  not  yet 
appeared.  I  accompanied  his  notice  with  a  most 
pathetic  address  to  the  printer  not  to  neglect  the 
correction.  I  know  how  such  a  blunder  would 
"  batter  at  your  peace."  With  regard  to  the  works, 
the  Letter  I  read  with  unabated  satisfaction.  Such 
a  thing  was  wanted,  called  for.  The  parallel  of 
Cotton  with  Burns  I  heartily  approve.  Iz.  Walton 
hallows  any  page  in  which  his  reverend  name  ap- 
pears. "  Duty  archly  bending  to  purposes  of  general 
benevolence  "  is  exquisite.  The  poems  I  endeav- 
ored not  to  understand,  but  to  read  them  with  my 
eye  alone  ;  and  I  think  I  succeeded.  (Some  people 
will  do  that  when  they  come  out,  you  '11  say.)  As  if  I 
were  to  luxuriate  to-morrow  at  some  picture-gallery 
I  was  never  at  before,  and,  going  by  to-day  by 
chance,  found  the  door  open,  and  having  but  five 
minutes  to  look  about  me,  peeped  in,  — just  such  a 
chastised  peep  I  took  with  my  mind  at  the  lines  my 
luxuriating  eye  was  coursing  over  unrestrained,  not 
to  anticipate  another  day's  fuller  satisfaction.  Cole- 
ridge is  printing  "  Christabel,"  by  Lord  Byron's 
recommendation  to  Murray,  with   what   he  calls  a 

f  vision,  "  Kubla  Khan,"  which  said  vision  he  repeats 
■so  enchantingly  that  it  irradiates  and  brings  heaven 

^, 'and  elysian  bowers  into  my  parlor  while  he  sings  or 
says  it :  but  there  is  an  observation,  "  Never  tell  thy 
dreams,"  and  I  am  almost  afraid  that  "  Kubla 
Khan  "  is  an  owl  that  won't  bear  daylight.     I  fear 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  223 

lest  it  should  be  discovered,  by  the  lantern  of  typog- 
raphy and  clear  reducting  to  letters,  no  better  than 
nonsense  or  no  sense.  When  I  was  young,  I  used 
to  chant  with  ecstasy  "  Mild  Arcadians  ever  bloom- 
ing," till  somebody  told  me  it  was  meant  to  be  non- 
sense. Even  yet  I  have  a  lingering  attachment  to 
it,  and  I  think  it  better  than  "  Windsor  Forest," 
"Dying  Christian's  Address,"  etc.  Coleridge  has 
sent  his  tragedy  to  D.  L.  T. ;  it  cannot  be  acted  this 
season,  and  by  their  manner  of  receiving  I  hope  he 
will  be  able  to  alter  it  to  make  them  accept  it  for 
next.  He  is  at  present  under  the  medical  care  of 
a  Mr.  Oilman  (Killman?)  at  Highgate,  where  he 
plays  at  leaving  off  laud — m.  I  think  his  essentials 
not  touched  ;  he  is  very  bad,  but  then  he  wonder- 
fully picks  up  another  day,  and  his  face,  when  he 
repeats  his  verses,  hath  its  ancient  glory,  —  an  arch- 
angel a  little  damaged.  Will  Miss  H.  pardon  our 
not  replying  at  length  to  her  kind  letter?  We  are 
not  quiet  enough ;  Morgan  is  with  us  every  day, 
going  betwixt  Highgate  and  the  Temple.  Coleridge 
is  absent  but  four  miles;  and  the  neighborhood  of 
such  a  man  is  as  exciting  as  the  presence  of  fifty 
ordinary  persons.  'Tis  enough  to  be  within  the 
whiff  and  wind  of  his  genius  for  us  not  to  possess 
our  souls  in  quiet.  If  I  lived  with  him  or  the  Au- 
thor of  the  "  Excursion''  I  should,  in  a  very  litde  time, 
lose  my  own  identity,  and  be  dragged  along  in  the 
current  of  other  people's  thoughts,  hampered  in  a 
net.  How  cool  I  sit  in  this  office,  with  no  possible 
interruption  further  than  what  I  may  term  material ! 
There  is  not  as  much   metaphysics  in  thirty-six  of 


2  24  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

the  people  here  as  there  is  in  the  first  page  of 
Locke's  "  Treatise  on  the  Human  Understanding,"  or 
as  much  poetry  as  in  any  ten  lines  of  the  "  Pleasures 
of  Hope,"  or  more  natural  "  Beggar's  Petition."  I 
never  entangle  myself  in  any  of  their  speculations. 
Interruptions,  if  I  try  to  write  a  letter  even,  I  have 
dreadful.  Just  now,  within  four  lines,  I  was  called 
off  for  ten  minutes  to  consult  dusty  old  books  for  the 
settlement  of  obsolete  errors.  I  hold  you  a  guinea 
you  don't  find  the  chasm  where  I  left  off,  so  excel- 
lently the  wounded  sense  closed  again  and  was 
healed. 

N.  B.  —  Nothing  said  above  to  the  contrary,  but 
that  I  hold  the  personal  presence  of  the  two  men- 
tioned potent  spirits  at  a  rate  as  high  as  any ;  but  I 
pay  dearer  :  what  amuses  others  robs  me  of  myself ; 
my  mind  is  positively  discharged  into  their  greater 
currents,  but  flows  with  a  willing  violence.  As  to 
your  question  about  work,  it  is  far  less  oppressive  to 
me  than  it  was,  from  circumstances ;  it  takes  all  the 
golden  part  of  the  day  away,  a  solid  lump,  from  ten 
to  four :  but  it  does  not  kill  my  peace,  as  before. 
Some  day  or  other  I  shall  be  in  a  taking  again.  My 
head  aches,  and  you  have  had  enough.  God  bless 
you  ! 

C.  Lamb. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  225 

LXII. 

TO   H.   DODWELL.i 

July,  1 81 6. 

My  dear  Fellow,  —  I  have  been  in  a  lethargy 
this  long  while,  and  forgotten  London,  Westminster, 
Marybone,  Paddington,  —  they  all  went  clean  out  of 
my  head,  till  happening  to  go  to  a  neighbor's  in  this 
good  borough  of  Calne,  for  want  of  whist-players  we 
fell  upon  Comtfierce :  the  word  awoke  me  to  a  re- 
membrance of  my  professional  avocations  and  the 
long-continued  strife  which  I  have  been  these  twenty- 
four  years  endeavoring  to  compose  between  those 
grand  Irreconcilables,  Cash  and  Commerce  ;  I  in- 
stantly called  for  an  almanac,  which  with  some  diffi- 
culty was  procured  at  a  fortune-teller's  in  the  vicinity 
(for  happy  holiday  people  here,  having  nothing  to 
do,  keep  no  account  of  time),  and  found  that  by  dint 
of  duty  I  must  attend  in  Leadenhall  on  Wednesy. 
morning  next ;  and  shall  attend  accordingly.  Does 
Master  Hannah  give  maccaroons  still,  and  does  he 
fetch  the  Cobbetts  from  my  attic?  Perhaps  it 
would  n't  be  too  much  trouble  for  him  to  drop  the 
enclosed  up  at  my  aforesaid  chamber,  and  any  let- 
ters, etc.,  with  it ;  but  the  enclosed  should  go  with- 
out delay.  N.  B.  —  He  isn't  to  fetch  Monday's 
Cobbett,  but  it  is  to  wait  my  reading  when  I  come 

i  A  fellow-clerk  in  the  India  House.  This  charming 
letter,  written  evidently  during  a  vacation  trip,  was  first  pub- 
lished entire  in  Canon  Ainger's  edition  (1887)  of  Lamb's 
Letters. 

IS 


226  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

back.  Heigh-ho  !  Lord  have  mercy  upon  me, 
how  many  does  two  and  two  make?  I  am  afraid  I 
shall  make  a  poor  clerk  in  future,  I  am  spoiled  with 
rambling  among  haycocks  and  cows  and  pigs.  Bless 
me  !  I  had  like  to  have  forgot  (the  air  is  so  tem- 
perate and  oblivious  here)  to  say  I  have  seen  your 
brother,  and  hope  he  is  doing  well  in  the  finest  spot 
of  the  world.  More  of  these  things  when  I  return. 
Remember  me  to  the  gentlemen,  —  I  forget  names. 
Shall  I  find  all  my  letters  at  my  rooms  on  Tuesday? 
If  you  forget  to  send  'em  never  mind,  for  I  don't 
much  care  for  reading  and  writing  now;  I  shall 
come  back  again  by  degrees,  I  suppose,  into  my 
former  habits.  How  is  Bruce  de  Ponthieu,  and 
Porcher  and  Co.  ?  —  the  tears  come  into  my  eyes 
when  I  think  how  long  I  have  neglected  — . 

Adieu  !  ye  fields,  ye  shepherds  and  —  herdesses, 
and  dairies  and  cream-pots,  and  fairies  and  dances 
upon  the  green. 

I  come,  I  come.  Don't  drag  me  so  hard  by  the 
hair  of  my  head,  Genius  of  British  India  !  I  know 
my  hour  is  come,  Faustus  must  give  up  his  soul,  O 
Lucifer,  O  Mephistopheles !  Can  you  make  out 
what  all  this  letter  is  about?  I  am  afraid  to  look 
it  over. 

Ch.  Lamb. 

LXIII. 

TO  MRS.  WORDSWORTH. 

February  1 8,  i8i8. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Wordsworth,  —  I   have    repeat- 
edly  taken    pen     in    hand    to    answer   your   kind 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAJLB.  227 

letter.  My  sister  should  more  properly  have  done 
it ;  but  she  having  failed,  I  consider  myself  answer- 
able for  her  debts.  I  am  now  trying  to  do  it  in  the 
midst  of  commercial  noises,  and  with  a  quill  which 
seems  more  ready  to  glide  into  arithmetical  figures 
and  names  of  gourds,  cassia,  cardamoms,  aloes,  gin- 
ger, or  tea,  than  into  kindly  responses  and  friendly 
recollections.  The  reason  why  I  cannot  write  letters 
at  home  is  that  I  am  never  alone.  Plato's — (I 
write  to  W.  W.  now)  — Plato's  double-animal  parted 
never  longed  more  to  be  reciprocally  re-united  in 
the  system  of  its  first  creation  than  I  sometimes  do 
to  be  but  for  a  moment  single  and  separate.  Except 
my  morning's  walk  to  the  ofhce,  which  is  like  tread- 
ing on  sands  of  gold  for  that  reason,  I  am  never  so. 
I  cannot  walk  home  from  office,  but  some  officious 
friend  offers  his  unwelcome  courtesies  to  accompany 
me.  All  the  morning  I  am  pestered.  I  could  sit 
and  gravely  cast  up  sums  in  great  books,  or  compare 
sum  with  sum,  and  write  "paid"  against  this,  and 
"  unpaid  "  against  t'other,  and  yet  reser\'e  in  some 
corner  of  my  mind  "  some  darling  thoughts  all  my 
own,"  —  faint  memory  of  some  passage  in  a  book, 
or  the  tone  of  an  absent  friend's  voice,  —  a  snatch 
of  Miss  Burrell's  singing,  or  a  gleam  of  Fanny  Kelly's 
divine  plain  face.  The  two  operations  might  be 
going  on  at  the  same  time  without  thwarting,  as  the 
sun's  two  motions  (earth's  I  mean)  ;  or  as  I  some- 
times turn  round  till  I  am  giddy,  in  my  back  parlor, 
while  my  sister  is  walking  longitudinally  in  the  front ; 
or  as  the  shoulder  of  veal  twists  round  with  the  spit, 
while  the    smoke  wreathes  up  the  chimney.     But 


2  28  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

there  are  a  set  of  amateurs  of  the  Belles  Lettres,  — 
the  gay  science,  —  who  come  to  me  as  a  sort  of 
rendezvous,  putting  questions  of  criticism,  of  British 
Institutions,  Lalla  Rookhs,  etc., — what  Coleridge 
said  at  the  lecture  last  night,  —  who  have  the  form 
of  reading  men,  but,  for  any  possible  use  reading 
can  be  to  them  but  to  talk  of,  might  as  well  have 
been  Ante-Cadmeans  born,  or  have  lain,  sucking  out 
the  sense  of  an  Egyptian  hieroglyph  as  long  as  the 
pyramids  will  last,  before  they  should  find  it.  These 
pests  worrit  me  at  business  and  in  all  its  intervals, 
perplexing  my  accounts,  poisoning  my  little  salutary 
warming- time  at  the  fire,  puzzling  my  paragraphs  if 
I  take  a  newspaper,  cramming  in  between  my  own 
free  thoughts  and  a  column  of  figures,  which  had 
come  to  an  amicable  compromise  but  for  them. 
Their  noise  ended,  one  of  them,  as  I  said,  accom- 
panies me  home,  lest  I  should  be  solitary  for  a 
moment.  He  at  length  takes  his  welcome  leave  at 
the  door ;  up  I  go,  mutton  on  table,  hungry  as  hun- 
ter, hope  to  forget  my  cares  and  bury  them  in  the 
agreeable  abstraction  of  mastication  ;  knock  at  the 
door  !  In  comes  Mr.  Hazlitt,  or  Martin  Burney,  or 
Morgan  Demi-gorgon,^  or  my  brother,  or  somebody, 
to  prevent  my  eating  alone,  —  a  process  absolutely 
necessary  to  my  poor  wretched  digestion.  Oh,  the 
pleasure  of  eating  alone  !  Eating  my  dinner  alone, 
—  let  me  think  of  it !  But  in  they  come,  and  make 
it  absolutely  necessary  that  I  should  open  a  bottle 
of  orange  ;  for  my  meat  turns  into  stone  when  any 
one  dines  with  me,  if  I  have  not  wine.  Wine  can 
'  John  Morgun. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  229 

mollify  stones ;  then  that  wine  turns  into  acidity, 
acerbity,  misanthropy,  a  hatred  of  my  interrupters 
(God  bless  'em  !  I  love  some  of  'em  dearly)  ;  and 
with  the  hatred,  a  still  greater  aversion  to  their  going 
away.  Bad  is  the  dead  sea  they  bring  upon  me, 
choking  and  deadening ;  but  worse  is  the  deader 
dry  sand  they  leave  me  on,  if  they  go  before  bed- 
time. Come  never,  I  would  say  to  these  spoilers  of 
my  dinner ;  but  if  you  come,  never  go  !  The  fact 
is,  this  interruption  does  not  happen  very  often ; 
but  every  time  it  comes  by  surprise,  that  present 
bane  of  my  hfe,  orange  wine,  with  all  its  dreary 
stifling  consequences,  follows.  Evening  company 
I  should  always  like,  had  I  any  mornings ;  but  I  am 
saturated  with  human  faces  (^divine  forsooth  !)  and 
voices  all  the  golden  morning ;  and  five  evenings  in 
a  week  would  be  as  much  as  I  should  covet  to  be 
in  company;  but  1  assure  you  that  is  a  wonderful 
week  in  which  I  can  get  two,  or  one,  to  myself.  I 
am  never  C.  L.,  but  always  C.  L.  &  Co.  He  who 
thought  it  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone,  preserve 
me  from  the  more  prodigious  monstrosity  of  being 
never  by  myself !  I  forget  bed-time ;  but  even 
there  these  sociable  frogs  clamber  up  to  annoy  me. 
Once  a  week,  generally  some  singular  evening  that, 
being  alone,  I  go  to  bed  at  the  hour  I  ought  always 
to  be  a-bed,  just  close  to  my  bed-room  window  is 
the  club-room  of  a  public-house,  where  a  set  of 
singers  —  I  take  them  to  be  chorus-singers  of  the  two 
theatres  (it  must  be  both  of  them) — begin  their 
orgies.  They  are  a  set  of  fellows  (as  I  conceive) 
who,  being  limited  by  their  talents  to  the  burden 


230  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

of  the  song  at  the  playhouses,  in  revenge  have  got 
the  common  popular  airs  by  Bishop  or  some  cheap 
composer,  arranged  for  choruses,  that  is,  to  be  sung 
all  in  chorus, —  at  least,  I  never  can  catch  any  of  the 
text  of  the  plain  song,  nothhig  but  the  Babylonish 
choral  howl  at  the  tail  on 't.  "  That  fury  being 
quenched,"  —  the  howl  I  mean,  —  a  burden  suc- 
ceeds of  shouts  and  clapping  and  knocking  of  the 
table.  At  length  over-tasked  nature  drops  under  it, 
and  escapes  for  a  few  hours  into  the  society  of  the 
sweet  silent  creatures  of  dreams,  which  go  away  with 
mocks  and  mows  at  cockcrow.  And  then  I  think 
of  the  words  Christabel's  father  used  (bless  me  !  I 
have  dipt  in  the  wrong  ink)  to  say  every  morning 
by  way  of  variety  when  he  awoke,  — 

"  Every  knell,  the  Baron  saith, 
Wakes  us  up  to  a  world  of  death,"  — 

or  something  like  it.  All  I  mean  by  this  senseless 
interrupted  tale  is,  that  by  my  central  situation  I  am 
a  little  over-companied.  Not  that  I  have  any  ani- 
mosity against  the  good  creatures  that  are  so  anxious 
to  drive  away  the  harpy  Solitude  from  me.  I  like  'em, 
and  cards,  and  a  cheerful  glass ;  but  I  mean  merely 
to  give  you  an  idea,  between  office  confinement  and 
after-ofifice  society,  how  little  time  I  can  call  my  own. 
I  mean  only  to  draw  a  picture,  not  to  make  an  in- 
ference. I  would  not,  that  I  know  of,  have  it  other- 
wise. I  only  wish  sometimes  I  could  exchange  some 
of  my  faces  and  voices  for  the  faces  and  voices 
which  a  late  visitation  brought  most  welcome,  and  car- 
ried away,  leaving  regret,  but  more  pleasure, —  even 


LETTERS  OE  CHARLES  LAMB.  231 

a  kind  of  gratitude, —  at  being  so  often  favored  with 
that  kind  northern  visitation.  My  London  faces  and 
noises  don't  hear  me, —  I  mean  no  disrespect,  or  I 
should  explain  myself,  that  instead  of  their  return 
220  times  a  year,  and  the  return  of  W.  W.,  etc., 
seven  times  in  104  weeks,  some  more  equal  distri- 
bution might  be  found.  I  have  scarce  room  to  put 
in  Mary's  kind  love  and  my  poor  name. 

C.  La:mb. 

W.  H[azlitt].  goes  on  lecturing  against  W.  W,, 
and  making  copious  use  of  quotations  from  said  W. 
W.  to  give  a  zest  to  said  lectures.  S.  T.  C.  is  lectur- 
ing with  success.  I  have  not  heard  either  him  or 
H. ;  but  I  dined  with  S.  T.  C.  at  Oilman's  a  Sunday 
or  two  since  ;  and  he  was  well  and  in  good  spirits. 
I  mean  to  hear  some  of  the  course  ;  but  lectures  are 
not  much  to  my  taste,  whatever  the  lecturer  may  be. 
If  read,  they  are  dismal  flat,  and  you  can't  think 
why  you  are  brought  together  to  hear  a  man  read 
his  works,  which  you  could  read  so  much  better  at 
leisure  yourself;  if  delivered  extempore,  I  am  always 
in  pain  lest  the  gift  of  utterance  should  suddenly 
fail  the  orator  in  the  middle,  as  it  did  me  at  the 
dinner  given  in  honor  of  me  at  the  London  Tavern. 
"  Gentlemen,"  said  I,  and  there  I  stopped  ;  the  rest 
my  feelings  were  under  the  necessity  of  supplying. 
Mrs.  Wordsworth  will  go  on,  kindly  haunting  us  with 
visions  of  seeing  the  lakes  once  more,  which  never 
can  be  realized.  Between  us  there  is  a  great  gulf, 
not  of  inexplicable  moral  antipathies  and  distances, 
I  hope,  as  there  seemed  to  be  between  me  and  that 


232  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

gentleman  concerned  in  the  stamp-office  that  I  so 
strangely  recoiled  from  at  Haydon's.  I  think  I  had 
an  instinct  that  he  v/as  the  head  of  an  office.  I  hate 
all  such  people,  —  accountants'  deputy  accountants. 
The  mere  abstract  notion  of  the  East  India  Com- 
pany, as  long  as  she  is  unseen,  is  pretty,  rather 
poetical ;  but  as  she  makes  herself  manifest  by  the 
persons  of  such  beasts,  I  loathe  and  detest  her  as 
the  scarlet  what-do-you-call-her  of  Babylon.  I 
thought,  after  abridging  us  of  all  our  red-letter  days, 
they  had  done  their  worst ;  but  I  was  deceived  in 
the  length  to  which  heads  of  offices,  those  true 
liberty-haters,  can  go,  —  they  are  the  tyrants,  not 
Ferdinand,  nor  Nero.  By  a  decree  passed  this 
week,  they  have  abridged  us  of  the  immemorially 
observed  custom  of  going  at  one  o'clock  of  a  Satur- 
day, —  the  little  shadow  of  a  holiday  left  us.  Dear 
W.  W.,  be  thankful  for  liberty. 


LXIV. 

TO  WORDSWORTH. 

May,  18 19. 

Dear  Wordsworth, —  I  received  a  copy  of  "  Peter 
Bell "  1  a  week  ago,  and  I  hope  the  author  will  not 

1  Lamb  alludes  to  a  parody,  ridiculing  Wordsworth,  by 
J.  Hamilton  Reynolds.  The  verses  were  entitled  "  Peter 
Bell :  A  Lyrical  Ballad ;  "  and  their  drift  and  spirit  may  be 
inferred  from  the  following  lines  from  the  preface  :  "  It  is 
now  a  period  of  one-and-twenty  years  since  I  first  wrote 
some  of  the  most  perfect  compositions  (except  certain  pieces 
I  have  written  in  my  later   days)  that  ever  dropped  from 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  233 

be  offended  if  I  say  I  do  not  much  relish  it.  The 
humor,  if  it  is  meant  for  humor,  is  forced  ;  and  then 
the  price,  —  sixpence  would  have  been  dear  for  it. 
Mind,  I  do  not  mean  jiY?/^r ''  Peter  Bell,"  but  a  "  Peter 
Bell,"  which  preceded  it  about  a  week,  and  is  in 
every  bookseller's  shop-window  in  London,  the  type 
and  paper  nothing  differing  from  the  true  one,  the 
preface  signed  W.  W.,  and  the  supplementary  pre- 
face quoting  as  the  author's  words  an  extract  from 
the  supplementary  preface  to  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads." 
Is  there  no  law  against  these  rascals  ?  I  would  have 
this  Lambert  Simnel  whipped  at  the  cart's  tail.  Who 
started  the  spurious  "  P.  B."  I  have  not  heard.  I 
should  guess,  one  of  the  sneering  brothers,  the  vile 
Smiths ;  but  I  have  heard  no  name  mentioned. 
"Peter  Bell"  (not  the  mock  one)  is  excellent, — 
for  its  matter,  I  mean.  I  cannot  say  the  style  of  it 
quite  satisfies  me.  It  is  too  lyrical.  The  auditors, 
to  whom  it  is  feigned  to  be  told,  do  not  arride  me. 
I  had  rather  it  had  been  told  me,  the  reader,  at  once. 
"Hart-leap  Well  "  is  the  tale  for  me  ;  in  matter  as 
good  as  this,  in  manner  infinitely  before  it,  in  my 
poor  judgment.  Why  did  you  not  add  "  The  Wag- 
oner"? Have  I  thanked  you,  though,  yet  for 
"  Peter  Bell  "  ?  I  would  not  not  have  it  for  a  good 
deal  of  money.  Coleridge  is  very  foolish  to  scribble 
about  books.    Neither  his  tongue  nor  fingers  are  very 

poetical  pen.  My  heart  hath  been  right  and  powerful  all 
its  years.  I  never  thought  an  evil  or  a  weak  thought  in  my 
life.  It  has  been  my  aim  and  my  achievement  to  deduce 
moral  thunder  from  buttercups,  daisies,  celandines,  and  (as  a 
poet  scarcely  inferior  to  myself  hath  it)  '  such  small  deer,'  " 
etc. 


234  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

retentive.  But  I  shall  not  say  anything  to  him  about 
it.  He  would  only  begin  a  very  long  story  with  a 
very  long  face,  and  I  see  him  far  too  seldom  to  tease 
him  with  afifairs  of  business  or  conscience  when  I  do 
see  him.  He  never  comes  near  our  house,  and  when 
we  go  to  see  him  he  is  generally  writing  or  thinking ; 
he  is  writing  in  his  study  till  the  dinner  comes,  and 
that  is  scarce  over  before  the  stage  summons  us 
away.  The  mock  "  P.  B."  had  only  this  effect  on 
me,  that  after  twice  reading  it  over  in  hopes  to  find 
something  diverting  in  it,  I  reached  your  two  books 
off  the  shelf,  and  set  into  a  steady  reading  of  them, 
till  I  had  nearly  finished  both  before  I  went  to  bed,  — 
the  two  of  your  last  edition,  of  course,  I  mean. 
And  in  the  morning  I  awoke  determined  to  take 
down  the  "  Excursion."  I  wish  the  scoundrel  imi- 
tator could  know  this.  But  why  waste  a  wish  on 
him  ?  I  do  not  believe  that  paddling  about  with  a 
stick  in  a  pond,  and  fishing  up  a  dead  author,  whom 
his  intolerable  wrongs  had  driven  to  that  deed  of 
desperation,  would  turn  the  heart  of  one  of  these 
obtuse  literary  Bells.  There  is  no  Cock  for  such 
Peters,  damn  'em  !  I  am  glad  this  aspiration  came 
upon  the  red-ink  line.^  It  is  more  of  a  bloody 
curse.  I  have  delivered  over  your  other  presents 
to  Alsager  and  G.  Dyer.  A.,  I  am  sure,  will  value 
it,  and  be  proud  of  the  hand  from  which  it  came. 
To  G.  D.  a  poem  is  a  poem,  —  his  own  as  good  as 
anybody's,  and,  God  bless  him  !  anybody's  as  good 
as  his  own ;  for  I  do  not  think  he  has  the  most  dis- 

1  The  original   letter   is   actuallj'   written  in   two  inks, — 
alternate  black  and  red. 


LETTERS  OE  CHARLES  LAMB.  235 

tant  guess  of  the  possibility  of  one  poem  being  better 
than  another.  The  gods,  by  denying  him  the  very 
faculty  itself  of  discrimination,  have  effectually  cut 
off  every  seed  of  envy  in  his  bosom.  But  with  envy 
they  excited  curiosity  also  ;  and  if  you  wish  the  copy 
again,  which  you  destined  for  him,  I  think  I  shall  be 
able  to  find  it  again  for  you  on  his  third  shelf,  where 
he  stuffs  his  presentation  copies,  uncut,  in  shape  and 
matter  resembling  a  lump  of  dry  dust  ;  but  on  care- 
fully removing  that  stratum,  a  thing  like  a  pamphlet 
will  emerge.  I  have  tried  this  with  fifty  different 
poetical  works  that  have  been  given  G.  D.  in  return 
for  as  many  of  his  own  performances  ;  and  I  confess 
I  never  had  any  scruple  in  taking  my  own  again, 
wherever  I  found  it,  shaking  the  adherences  off; 
and  by  this  means  one  copy  of  '  my  works  '  served 
fur  G.  D.,  —  and,  with  a  little  dusting,  was  made  over 
to  my  good  friend  Dr.  Geddes,  who  little  thought 
whose  leavings  he  was  taking  when  he  made  me 
that  graceful  bow.  By  the  way,  the  Doctor  is  the 
only  one  of  my  acquaintance  who  bows  gracefully, 
—  my  town  acquaintance,  I  mean.  How  do  you 
like  my  way  of  writing  with  two  inks  ?  I  think  it  is 
pretty  and  motley.  Suppose  Mrs.  W.  adopts  it,  the 
next  time  she  holds  the  pen  for  you.  My  dinner 
waits.  I  have  no  time  to  indulge  any  longer  in  these 
laborious  curiosities.  God  bless  you,  and  cause  to 
thrive  and  burgeon  whatsoever  you  write,  and  fear 
no  inks  of  miserable  poetasters. 
Yours  truly, 

Charles  Lamb. 
Mary's  love. 


236  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

LXV. 

TO   MANNING. 

May  28,  1819. 

My  dear  M.,  —  I  want  to  know  how  your  brother 
is,  if  you  have  heard  lately.  I  want  to  know  about 
you.  I  wish  you  were  nearer.  How  are  my  cousins, 
the  Gladmans  of  Wheathampstead,  and  Farmer 
Bruton?     Mrs.  Bruton  is  a  glorious  woman. 

"  Hail,  Mackery  End  !  "  ^ 
This  is  a  fragment  of  a  blank-verse  poem  which  I 
once  meditated,  but  got  no  farther.  The  E.  I.  H. 
has  been  thrown  into  a  quandary  by  the  strange 
phenomenon  of  poor  Tommy  Bye,  whom  I  have 
known,  man  and  madman,  twenty-seven  years,  he 
being  elder  here  than  myself  by  nine  years  and 
more.  He  was  always  a  pleasant,  gossiping,  half- 
headed,  muzzy,  dozing,  dreaming,  walk-about,  in- 
offensive chap,  a  little  too  fond  of  the  creature,  — 
who  isn't  at  times?  But  Tommy  had  not  brains  to 
work  off  an  overnight's  surfeit  by  ten  o'clock  next 
morning,  and  unfortunately,  in  he  wandered  the 
other  morning  drunk  with  last  night  and  with  a 
superfoetation  of  drink  taken  in  since  he  set  out 
from  bed.  He  came  staggering  under  his  double 
burden,  like  trees  in  Java,  bearing  at  once  blossom, 
fruit,  and  falling  fruit,  as  I  have  heard  you  or  some 
other  traveller  tell,  with  his  face  literally  as  blue  as 
the  bluest  firmament.     Some  wretched  caHco  that  he 

1   See  the  Elia  essay,  "  Mackery  End,  in  H— shire." 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  237 

had  mopped  his  poor  oozy  front  with,  had  rendered  up 
its  native  dye,  and  the  devil  a  bit  would  he  consent 
to  wash  it,  but  swore  it  was  characteristic,  for  he 
was  going  to  the  sale  of  indigo ;  and  set  up  a  laugh 
which  I  did  not  think  the  lungs  of  mortal  man  were 
competent  to.  It  was  like  a  thousand  people  laugh- 
ing, or  the  Goblin  Page.  He  imagined  afterwards 
that  the  whole  office  had  been  laughing  at  him,  so 
strange  did  his  own  sounds  strike  upon  his  non%tx\.- 
sorium.  But  Tommy  has  laughed  his  last  laugh, 
and  awoke  the  next  day  to  find  himself  reduced 
from  an  abused  income  of  ^600  per  annum  to  one 
sixth  of  the  sum,  after  thirty-six  years'  tolerably 
good  service.  The  quality  of  mercy  was  not  strained 
in  his  behalf;  the  gentle  dews  dropped  not  on  him 
from  heaven.  It  just  came  across  me  that  I  was 
writing  to  Canton.  Will  you  drop  in  to-morrow 
night?  Fanny  Kelly  is  coming,  if  she  does  not 
cheat  us.  Mrs.  Gold  is  well,  but  proves  "  un- 
coined," as  the  lovers  about  Wheathampstead 
would  say. 

I  have  not  had  such  a  quiet  half  hour  to  sit  down 
to  a  quiet  letter  for  many  years.  I  have  not  been 
interrupted  above  four  times.  I  wrote  a  letter  the 
other  day  in  alternate  lines,  black  ink  and  red,  and 
you  cannot  think  how  it  chilled  the  flow  of  ideas. 
Next  Monday  is  Whit-Monday.  What  a  reflection  ! 
Twelve  years  ago,  and  I  should  have  kept  that  and 
the  following  holiday  in  the  fields  a-maying.  All  of 
those  pretty  pastoral  delights  are  over.  This  dead, 
everlasting  dead  desk,  —  how  it  weighs  the  spirit  of 
a  gentleman  down  !     This  dead  wood  of  the  desk  in- 


238  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Stead  of  your  living  trees  !  But  then,  again,  I  hate  the 
Joskins,  a  name  for  Hertfordshire  bumpkins.  Each 
state  of  hfe  has  its  inconvenience ;  but  then,  again, 
mine  has  more  than  one.  Not  that  I  repine,  or 
grudge,  or  murmur  at  my  destiny.  I  have  meat  and 
drink,  and  decent  apparel,  —  I  shall,  at  least,  when  I 
get  a  new  hat. 

A  red-haired  man  just  interrupted  me.  He  has 
broke  the  current  of  my  thoughts.  I  have  n't  a 
word  to  add.  I  don't  know  why  I  send  this  letter, 
but  I  have  had  a  hankering  to  hear  about  you  some 
days.  Perhaps  it  will  go  off  before  your  reply 
comes.  If  it  don't,  I  assure  you  no  letter  was  ever 
welcomer  from  you,  from  Paris  or  Macao. 

C.  Lamb. 


LXVI. 

TO    MISS  WORDSWORTH. 

November  25,  1819. 
Dear  Miss  Wordsworth,  —  You  will  think  me 
negligent,  but  I  wanted  to  see  more  of  Willy  ^  be- 
fore I  ventured  to  express  a  prediction.  Till  yester- 
day I  had  barely  seen  him, —  Virgilium  tantum 
vidi ;  but  yesterday  he  gave  us  his  small  company  to 
a  bullock's  heart,  and  I  can  pronounce  him  a  lad  of 
promise.  He  is  no  pedant  nor  bookworm ;  so  far 
I  can  answer.  Perhaps  he  has  hitherto  paid  too 
little  attention  to  other  men's  inventions,  preferring, 

^  Wordsworth's  third  son.  He  was  at  the  Charter-house 
School  in  London,  and  the  Lambs  had  invited  him  to  spend 
a  half  holiday  with  them. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  '2.2>'^ 

like  Lord  Foppington,  the  "  natural  sprouts  of  his 
own."  But  he  has  observation,  and  seems  thoroughly 
awake.  I  am  ill  at  remembering  other  people's  bon 
mots,  but  the  following  are  a  few.  Being  taken  over 
Waterloo  Bridge,  he  remarked  that  if  we  had  no 
mountains,  we  had  a  fine  river,  at  least,  —  which  was 
a  touch  of  the  comparative ;  but  then  he  added  in 
a  strain  which  augured  less  for  his  future  abilities  as 
a  political  economist,  that  he  supposed  they  must 
take  at  least  a  pound  a  week  toll.  Like  a  curious 
naturalist,  he  inquired  if  the  tide  did  not  come  up 
a  little  salty.  This  being  satisfactorily  answered, 
he  put  another  question,  as  to  the  flux  and  reflux ; 
which  being  rather  cunningly  evaded  than  artfully 
solved  by  that  she-.\ristotle  Mary,  who  muttered 
something  about  its  getting  up  an  hour  sooner  and 
sooner  every  day,  he  sagely  replied,  "  Then  it  must 
come  to  the  same  thing  at  last,"  —  which  was  a 
speech  worthy  of  an  infant  Halley  !  The  lion  in  the 
'Change  by  no  means  came  up  to  his  ideal  standard, 
—  so  impossible  is  it  for  Nature,  in  any  of  her  works, 
to  come  up  to  the  standard  of  a  child's  imagination  ! 
The  whelps  (lionets)  he  was  sorry  to  find  were 
dead  ;  and  on  particular  inquiry,  his  old  friend  the 
orang-outang  had  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh  also. 
The  grand  tiger  was  also  sick,  and  expected  in  no 
short  time  to  exchange  this  transitory  world  for  an- 
other or  none.  But,  again,  there  was  a  golden  eagle 
(I  do  not  mean  that  of  Charing)  which  did  much 
arride  and  console  him.  William's  genius,  I  take 
it,  leans  a  little  to  the  figurative ;  for  being  at  play 
at  tricktrack  (a  kind  of  minor  billiard-table  which 


240  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

we  keep  for  smaller  wights,  and  sometimes  refresh 
our  own  mature  fatigues  with  taking  a  hand  at),  not 
being  able  to  hit  a  ball  he  had  iterate  aimed  at,  he 
cried  out,  "  I  cannot  hit  that  beast."  Now,  the 
balls  are  usually  called  men,  but  he  felicitously  hit 
upon  a  middle  term,  —  a  term  of  approximation  and 
imaginative  reconciliation ;  a  something  where  the 
two  ends  of  the  brute  matter  (ivory)  and  their 
human  and  rather  violent  personification  into  men 
might  meet,  as  I  take  it,  —  illustrative  of  that  excel- 
lent remark  in  a  certain  preface  about  imagination, 
explaining  "  Like  a  sea-beast  that  had  crawled  forth 
to  sun  himself!  "  Not  that  I  accuse  William  Minor 
of  hereditary  plagiary,  or  conceive  the  image  to  have 
come  ex  traduce.  Rather  he  seemeth  to  keep  aloof 
from  any  source  of  imitation,  and  purposely  to 
remain  ignorant  of  what  mighty  poets  have  done  in 
this  kind  before  him  ;  for  being  asked  if  his  father 
had  ever  been  on  Westminster  Bridge,^  he  answered 
that  he  did  not  know  ! 

It  is  hard  to  discern  the  oak  in  the  acorn,  or 
a  temple  like  St.  Paul's  in  the  first  stone  which 
is  laid ;  nor  can  I  quite  prefigure  what  destination 
the  genius  of  William  Minor  hath  to  take.  Some 
few  hints  I  have  set  down,  to  guide  my  future 
observations.  He  hath  the  power  of  calculation 
in  no  ordinary  degree  for  a  chit.  He  combineth 
figures,  after  the  first  boggle,  rapidly;  as  in  the 
tricktrack  board,  where  the  hits  are  figured,  at  first 
he  did  not  perceive  that  15  and  7  made  22  ;  but  by 

^  "William  Minor  "  was  evidently  forgetful  of  the  exqui- 
site sonnet,  "  Composed  Upon  Westminster  Bridge." 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  241 

a  little  use  he  could  combine  8  with  25,  and  2,t^ 
again  with  16,  — which  approacheth  something  in 
kind  (far  let  me  be  from  flattering  him  by  saying 
in  degree)  to  that  of  the  famous  American  boy.  I 
am  sometimes  inclined  to  think  I  perceive  the 
future  satirist  in  him,  for  he  hath  a  sub-sardonic 
smile  which  bursteth  out  upon  occasion,  —  as  when 
he  was  asked  if  London  were  as  big  as  Ambleside  ; 
and  indeed  no  other  answer  was  given,  or  proper 
to  be  given,  to  so  ensnaring  and  provoking  a  ques- 
tion. In  the  contour  of  skull  certainly  I  discern 
something  paternal ;  but  whether  in  all  respects 
the  future  man  shall  transcend  his  father's  fame, 
Time,  the  trier  of  Geniuses,  must  decide.  Be  it 
pronounced  peremptorily  at  present  that  Willy  is 
a  well-mannered  child,  and  though  no  great  student, 
hath  yet  a  lively  eye  for  things  that  lie  before  him. 
Given  in  haste  from  my  desk  at  Leadenhall. 
Yours,  and  yours  most  sincerely, 

C.  Lamb. 


LXVIL 

TO  COLERIDGE. 

March  9,  1822. 
Dear  C.,  —  It  gives  me  great  satisfaction  to  hear 
that  the  pig  turned  out  so  well,^  —  they  are  inter- 
esting creatures  at  a  certain  age  ;  what  a  pity  such 
buds    should  blow  out   into  the  maturity  of  rank 

1  Some  one   had  sent  Coleridge   a  pig,  and  the  gift  was 
erroneously  credited  to  Lamb. 
16 


242  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

bacon  !  You  had  all  some  of  the  crackling  —  and 
brain  sauce ;  did  you  remember  to  rub  it  with 
butter,  and  gently  dredge  it  a  little,  just  before 
the  crisis?  Did  the  eyes  come  away  kindly,  with 
no  CEdipean  avulsion?  Was  the  crackling  the 
color  of  the  ripe  pomegranate?  Had  you  no 
cursed  complement  of  boiled  neck  of  mutton  be- 
fore it,  to  blunt  the  edge  of  delicate  desire?  Did 
you  flesh  maiden  teeth  in  it?  Not  that  I  sent  the 
pig,  or  can  form  the  remotest  guess  what  part  Owen 
could  play  in  the  business.  I  never  knew  him  give 
anything  away  in  my  life.  He  would  not  begin 
with  strangers.  I  suspect  the  pig,  after  all,  was 
meant  for  me  ;  but  at  the  unlucky  juncture  of  time 
being  absent,  the  present  somehow  went  round  to 
Highgate.  To  confess  an  honest  truth,  a  pig  is  one 
of  those  things  I  could  never  think  of  sending  away. 
Teals,  widgeons,  snipes,  barn-door  fowl,  ducks, 
geese,  —  your  tame  villatic  things,  —  Welsh  mutton, 
collars  of  brawn,  sturgeon,  fresh  or  pickled,  your 
potted  char,  Swiss  cheeses,  French  pies,  early 
grapes,  muscadines,  I  impart  as  freely  unto  my 
friends  as  to  myself.  They  are  but  self-extended  ; 
but  pardon  me  if  I  stop  somewhere.  Where  the 
fine  feeling  of  benevolence  giveth  a  higher  smack 
than  the  sensual  rarity,  there  my  friends  (or  any 
good  man)  may  command  me  ;  but  pigs  are  pigs, 
and  I  myself  therein  am  nearest  to  myself.  Nay, 
I  should  think  it  an  affront,  an  undervaluing  done 
to  Nature,  who  bestowed  such  a  boon  upon  me,  if 
in  a  churlish  mood  I  parted  with  the  precious  gift. 
One  of  the  bitterest  pangs   I  ever  felt  of  remorse 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  243 

was  when  a  child.  My  kind  old  aunt  ^  had  strained 
her  pocket-strings  to  bestow  a  sixpenny  whole  plum- 
cake  upon  me.  In  my  w^ay  home  through  the 
Borough,  I  met  a  venerable  old  man,  not  a  mendi- 
cant, but  thereabouts,  — a  look -beggar,  not  a  verbal 
petitionist ;  and  in  the  coxcombry  of  taught-charity, 
I  gave  away  the  cake  to  him.  I  walked  on  a  little 
in  all  the  pride  of  an  Evangelical  peacock,  when 
of  a  sudden  my  old  aunt's  kindness  crossed  me,  — 
the  sum  it  was  to  her ;  the  pleasure  she  had  a  right 
to  expect  that  I  —  not  the  old  impostor  —  should 
take  in  eating  her  cake  ;  the  cursed  ingratitude  by 
which,  under  the  color  of  a  Christian  virtue,  1  had 
frustrated  her  cherished  purpose.  I  sobbed,  wept, 
and  took  it  to  heart  so  grievously  that  I  think  I 
never  suffered  the  like ;  and  I  was  right.  It  was  a 
piece  of  unfeeling  hypocrisy,  and  proved  a  lesson 
to  me  ever  after.  The  cake  has  long  been  masti- 
cated, consigned  to  dunghill  with  the  ashes  of  that 
unseasonable  pauper. 

But  when  Providence,  who  is  better  to  us  all  than 
our  aunts,  gives  me  a  pig,  remembering  my  tempta- 
tion and  my  fall,  I  shall  endeavor  to  act  towards 
it  more  in  the  spirit  of  the  donor's   purpose. 

Yours  (short  of  pig)  to  command  in  everything, 

C.  L. 

1  Elia:  "Christ's  Hospital  Five-and-Thirty  Years  Ago." 


244  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

LXVIII. 

TO    WORDSWORTH. 

Mcircli  20,  1822. 
My  dear  Wordsworth,  —  A  letter  from  you  is 
very  grateful ;  I  have  not  seen  a  Kendal  postmark 
so  long.  We  are  pretty  well,  save  colds  and  rheu- 
matics, and  a  certain  deadness  to  everything,  which 
I  think  I  may  date  from  poor  John's  loss,  and  an- 
other accident  or  two  at  the  same  time,  that  has 
made  me  almost  bury  myself  at  Dalston,  where  yet 
I  see  more  faces  than  I  could  wish.  Deaths  over- 
set one  and  put  one  out  long  after  the  recent  grief. 
Two  or  three  have  died  within  this  last  two  twelve- 
months, and  so  many  parts  of  me  have  been  numbed. 
One  sees  a  picture,  reads  an  anecdote,  starts  a  cas- 
ual fancy,  and  thinks  to  tell  of  it  to  this  person  in 
preference  to  every  other :  the  person  is  gone  whom 
it  would  have  peculiarly  suited.  It  won't  do  for 
another.  Every  departure  destroys  a  class  of  sym- 
pathies. There  's  Captain  Burney  gone  !  What  fun 
has  whist  now  ?  What  matters  it  what  you  lead,  if  you 
can  no  longer  fancy  him  looking  over  you  ?  ^  One 
never  hears  anything,  but  the  image  of  the  particular 
person  occurs  with  whom  alone  almost  you  would 
care  to  share  the  intelligence,  —  thus  one  distributes 
oneself  about ;  and  now  for  so  many  parts  of  me 
I  have  lost  the  market.     Common  natures  do  not 

'  Martin  Burney  was  the  grimy-fisted  whist-player  to  whom 
Lamb  once  observed,  "Martin,  if  dirt  was  trumps,  what  hands 
you  would  liold  !  " 


LETTERS  OE  CHARLES  LAMB  245 

suffice  me.  Good  people,  as  they  are  called,  won't 
serve  ;  I  want  individuals.  I  am  made  up  of  queer 
points,  and  I  want  so  many  answering  needles. 
The  going-away  of  friends  does  not  make  the  re- 
mainder more  precious.  It  takes  so  much  from 
them,  as  there  was  a  common  link.  A,  B,  and  C 
make  a  party.  A  dies.  B  not  only  loses  A,  but 
all  A's  part  in  C.  C  loses  A's  part  in  B,  and  so 
the  alphabet  sickens  by  subtraction  of  interchange- 
ables.  I  express  myself  muddily,  capite  doletite.  I 
have  a  dulling  cold.  My  theory  is  to  enjoy  life  ; 
but  my  practice  is  against  it.  I  grow  ominously 
tired  of  official  confinement.  Thirty  years  have  I 
served  the  Philistines,  and  my  neck  is  not  subdued 
to  the  yoke.  You  don't  know  how  wearisome  it  is 
to  breathe  the  air  of  four  pent  walls  without  relief, 
day  after  day,  all  the  golden  hours  of  the  day  be- 
tween ten  and  four,  without  ease  or  interposition. 
Tadet  vie  hannn  quotidianartim  formarum,  these 
pestilential  clerk-faces  always  in  one's  dish.  Oh  for 
a  few  years  between  the  grave  and  the  desk  !  they 
are  the  same,  save  that  at  the  latter  you  are  the 
outside  machine.  The  foul  enchanter  [Nick?], 
"  letters  four  do  form  his  name,"  — Busirane""  is  his 
name  in  hell,  —  that  has  curtailed  you  of  some  do- 
mestic comforts,  hath  laid  a  heavier  hand  on  me, 
not  in  present  infliction,  but  in  the  taking  away  the 
hope  of  enfranchisement.  I  dare  not  whisper  to 
myself  a  pension  on  this  side  of  absolute  incapacita- 
tion and  infirmity,  till  years  have  sucked  me  dry,  — 
Otliim  cum  indigtiitate.  I  had  thought  in  a  green  old 
^  The  enchanter  in  "  The  Faerie  Queene  " 


246  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

age  (oh,  green  thought !)  to  have  retired  to  Ponder's 
End,  —  emblematic  name,  how  beautiful  !  —  in 
the  Ware  Road,  there  to  have  made  up  my  accounts 
with  Heaven  and  the  Company,  toddling  about  be- 
tween it  and  Cheshunt,  anon  stretching,  on  some 
fine  Izaak  Walton  morning,  to  Hoddesdon  or  Am- 
well,  careless  as  a  beggar ;  but  walking,  walking  ever, 
till  I  fairly  walked  myself  off  my  legs,  —  dying  walk- 
ing !  The  hope  is  gone.  I  sit  like  Philomel  all 
day  (but  not  singing),  with  my  breast  against  this 
thorn  of  a  desk,  with  the  only  hope  that  some  pul- 
monary affliction  may  relieve  me.  Vide  Lord  Pal- 
merston's  report  of  the  clerks  in  the  War-office 
(Debates  in  this  morning's  "Times  "),  by  which  it 
appears,  in  twenty  years  as  many  clerks  have  been 
coughed  and  catarrhed  out  of  it  into  their  freer 
graves.  Thank  you  for  asking  about  the  pictures. 
Milton  hangs  over  my  fire-side  in  Covent  Garden 
(when  I  am  there)  ;  the  rest  have  been  sold  for  an 
old  song,  wanting  the  eloquent  tongue  that  should 
have  set  them  off!  You  have  gratified  me  with 
liking  my  meeting  with  Dodd.  For  the  Malvolio 
story,  —  the  thing  is  become  in  verity  a  sad  task,  and 
I  eke  it  out  with  anything.  If  I  could  slip  out  of  it 
I  should  be  happy  ;  but  our  chief-reputed  assistants 
have  forsaken  us.  The  Opium- Eater  crossed  us 
once  with  a  dazzling  path,  and  hath  as  suddenly 
left  us  darkling  ;  and,  in  short,  I  shall  go  on  from 
dull  to  worse,  because  I  cannot  resist  the  book- 
sellers' importunity,  —  the  old  plea,  you  know,  of 
authors ;  but  I  believe  on  my  part  sincere.  Hartley 
I  do  not  so  often  see,  but  1  never  see  him  in  unwel- 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  247 

come  hour.  I  thoroughly  love  and  honor  him.  I 
send  you  a  frozen  epistle  ;  but  it  is  winter  and  dead 
time  of  the  year  with  me.  May  Heaven  keep 
something  like  spring  and  summer  up  with  you, 
strengthen  your  eyes,  and  make  mine  a  little  lighter 
to  encounter  with  them,  as  I  hope  they  shall  yet  and 
again,  before  all  are  closed  ! 

Yours,  with  every  kind  remembrance, 

C.  L. 


LXIX. 

TO  JOHN  CLARE.i 

August  31,  1822. 

Dear  Clare,  —  I  thank  you  heartily  for  your 
present.  I  am  an  inveterate  old  Londoner,  but 
while  I  am  among  your  choice  collections  I  seem  to 
be  native  to  them  and  free  of  the  country.  The 
quality  of  your  observation  has  astonished  me. 
What  have  most  pleased  me  have  been  "  Recollec- 
tions after  a  Ramble,"  and  those  "  Grongar  Hill  " 
kind  of  pieces  in  eight-syllable  lines,  my  favourite 
measure,  such  as  "  Cooper  Hill "  and  "  Solitude." 
In  some  of  your  story-telling  Ballads  the  provincial 
phrases  sometimes  startle  me.  I  think  you  are  too 
profuse  with  them.  In  poetry  slaug  of  every  kind 
is  to  be  avoided.  There  is  a  rustic  Cockneyism,  as 
little  pleasing  as  ours  of  London.  Transplant  Arca- 
dia to  Helpstone.     The  true  rustic  style  I  think  is 

^  The  Northamptonshire  peasant  poet.  He  had  sent 
Lamb  his  "The  Village  Minstrel,  and  other  Poems  " 


248  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

to  be  found  in  Shenstone.  Would  his  "  School-mis- 
tress," the  prettiest  of  poems,  have  been  better  if  he 
had  used  quite  the  Goody's  own  language?  Now 
and  then  a  home  rusticism  is  fresh  and  startling  ; 
but  when  nothing  is  gained  in  expression,  it  is  out  of 
tenor.  It  may  make  folks  smile  and  stare  ;  but  the 
ungenial  coalition  of  barbarous  with  refined  phrases 
will  prevent  you  in  the  end  from  being  so  generally 
tasted  as  you  desire  to  be.  Excuse  my  freedom, 
and  take  the  same  liberty  with  my  puns. 

I  send  you  two  little  volumes  of  my  spare  hours. 
They  are  of  all  sorts ;  there  is  a  Methodist  hymn  for 
Sundays,  and  a  farce  for  Saturday  night.  Pray  give 
them  a  place  on  your  shelf.  Pray  accept  a  little 
volume,  of  which  I  have  a  duplicate,  that  I  may 
return  in  equal  number  to  your  welcome  presents. 
I  think  I  am  indebted  to  you  for  a  sonnet  in  the 
"  London  "  for  August. 

Since  I  saw  you  I  have  been  in  France,  and  have 
eaten  frogs.  The  nicest  little  rabbity  things  you 
ever  tasted.  Do  look  about  for  them.  Make  Mrs. 
Clare  pick  off  the  hind-quarters,  boil  them  plain, 
with  parsley  and  butter.  The  fore-quarters  are  not 
so  good.     She  may  let  them  hop  off  by  themselves. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Chas.  Lamb. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  249 


LXX. 

TO    MR.    BARRON    FIELD. 

September  22,  1S22. 

My  DE.4R  F.,  —  I  scribble  hastily  at  office.  Frank 
wants  my  letter  presently.  I  and  sister  are  just  re- 
turned from  Paris  !  ^  We  have  eaten  frogs.  It 
has  been  such  a  treat  !  You  know  our  monotonous 
general  tenor.  Frogs  are  the  nicest  little  delicate 
things,  —  rabbity  flavored.  Imagine  a  Lilliputian 
rabbit !  They  fricassee  them ;  but  in  my  mind, 
dressed  seethed,  plain,  with  parsley  and  butter,  would 
have  been  the  decision  of  Apicius.  .  .  .  Paris  is  a 
glorious,  picturesque  old  city.  London  looks  mean 
and  new  to  it,  as  the  town  of  Washington  would, 
seen  after  //.  But  they  have  no  St.  Paul's  or  West- 
minster Abbey.  The  Seine,  so  much  despised  by 
Cockneys,  is  exactly  the  size  to  run  through  a  mag- 
nificent street ;  palaces  a  mile  long  on  one  side,  lofty 
Edinburgh  stone  (oh,  the  glorious  antiques  !)  houses 
on  the  other.  The  Thames  disunites  London  and 
Southwark.  I  had  Talma  to  supper  with  me.  He 
has  picked  up,  as  I  believe,  an  authentic  portrait  of 
Shakspeare.  He  paid  a  broker  about  ^40  Eng- 
lish for  it.  It  is  painted  on  the  one  half  of  a  pair  of 
bellows, — a  lovely  picture,  corresponding  with  the 
Folio    head.     The    bellows   has    old    carved   ivitiga 

1  The  Lambs  had  visited  Paris  on  the  invitation  of  James 
Kenney,  the  dramatist,  who  had  married  a  Frenchwoman, 
and  was  living  at  Versailles. 


250  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

round  it,  and  round  the  visnomy  is  inscribed,  as 
near  as  I  remember,  not  divided  into  rhyme,  —  I 
found  out  the  rhyme, — 

"  Whom  have  we  here 
Stuck  on  this  bellows, 
But  the  Prince  of  good  fellows, 
Willy  Shakspere  ? " 

At  top,  — 

"  O  base  and  coward  luck, 
To  be  here  stuck  !  " 

POINS. 

At  bottom,  — 

"  Nay  !  rather  a  glorious  lot  is  to  him  assign'd, 
Who,  like  the  Almighty,  rides  upon  the  wind.  " 

Pistol. 

This  is  all  in  old  carved  wooden  letters.  The 
countenance  smiling,  sweet,  and  intellectual  beyond 
measure,  even  as  he  was  immeasurable.  It  may  be 
a  forgery.  They  laugh  at  me,  and  tell  me  Ireland 
is  in  Paris,  and  has  been  putting  off  a  portrait  of 
the  Black  Prince.  How  far  old  wood  may  be  imi- 
tated I  cannot  say.  Ireland  was  not  found  out  by 
his  parchments,  but  by  his  poetry.  I  am  confident 
no  painter  on  either  side  the  Channel  could  have 
painted  anything  near  like  the  face  I  saw.  Again, 
would  such  a  painter  and  forger  have  taken  ;^40 
for  a  thing,  if  authentic,  worth  ^4000  ?  Talma  is 
not  in  the  secret,  for  he  had  not  even  found  out  the 
rhymes  in  the  first  inscription.  He  is  coming  over 
with  it,  and  my  life  to  Southey's  "  Thalaba,"  it  will 
gain  universal  faith. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  251 

The  letter  is  wanted,  and  I  am  wanted.  Imagine 
the  blank  filled  up  with  all  kind  things. 

Our  joint,  hearty  remembrances  to  both  of  you. 
Yours  as  ever, 

C.    Lamb. 

LXXI. 

TO   WALTER   WILSON. 

December  16,  1822. 

Dear  Wilson,  —  Lightning  I  was  going  to  call 
you.  You  must  have  thought  me  negligent  in  not 
answering  your  letter  sooner.  But  I  have  a  habit  of 
never  writing  letters  but  at  the  office  ;  't  is  so  much 
time  cribbed  out  of  the  Company  ;  and  I  am  but 
just  got  out  of  the  thick  of  a  tea-sale,  in  which  most 
of  the  entry  of  notes,  deposits,  etc.,  usually  fiills  to 
my  share. 

I  have  nothing  of  De  Foe's  but  two  or  three  nov- 
els and  the  "  Plague  History."  '  I  can  give  you  no 
information  about  him.  As  a  slight  general  charac- 
ter of  what  I  remember  of  them  (for  I  have  not 
looked  into  them  latterly) ,  I  would  say  that  in  the 
appearance  oitrittli,  in  all  the  incidents  and  conver- 
sations that  occur  in  them,  they  exceed  any  works 
of  fiction  I  am  acquainted  with.  It  is  perfect  illu- 
sion. The  author  n&w&r  appears  in  these  self-narra- 
tives (for  so  they  ought  to  be  called,  or  rather 
auto-biographies) ,  but  the  narrator  chains  us  down 
to  an  implicit  belief  in  everything  he  says.     There 

1  Wilson  was  preparing  a  Life  of  De  Foe,  and  had  writ- 
ten to  Lamb  for  guidance. 


252  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

is  all  the  minute  detail  of  a  log-book  in  it.  Dates 
are  painfully  pressed  upon  the  memory.  Facts  are 
repeated  over  and  over  in  varying  phrases,  till  you 
cannot  choose  but  believe  them.  It  is  like  reading 
evidence  given  in  a  court  of  justice.  So  anxious 
the  story-teller  seems  that  the  truth  should  be  clear- 
ly comprehended  that  when  he  has  told  us  a  matter 
of  fact  or  a  motive,  in  a  line  or  two  farther  down 
he  repeats  it  with  his  favorite  figure  of  spefech,  "  I 
say"  so  and  so,  though  he  had  made  it  abundantly 
plain  before.  This  is  in  imitation  of  the  common 
people's  way  of  speaking,  or  rather  of  the  way  in 
which  they  are  addressed  by  a  master  or  mistress 
who  wishes  to  impress  something  upon  their  memo- 
ries, and  has  a  wonderful  effect  upon  matter-of-fact 
readers.  Indeed,  it  is  to  such  j)rincipally  that  he 
writes.  His  style  is  everywhere  beautiful,  but  plain 
and  homely.  "  Robinson  Crusoe  "  is  delightful  to  all 
ranks  and  classes ;  but  it  is  easy  to  see  that  it  is  writ- 
ten in  phraseology  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  lower 
conditions  of  readers,  —  hence  it  is  an  especial  favor- 
ite with  seafaring  men,  poor  boys,  servant-maids,  etc. 
His  novels  are  capital  kitchen- reading,  while  they 
are  worthy,  from  their  deep  interest,  to  find  a  shelf 
in  the  libraries  of  the  wealthiest  and  the  most 
learned.  His  passion  for  matter-of-fact  narrative 
sometimes  betrayed  him  into  a  long  relation  of  com- 
mon incidents,  which  might  happen  to  any  man, 
and  have  no  interest  but  the  intense  appearance  of 
truth  in  them,  to  recommend  them.  The  whole 
latter  half  or  two -thirds  of  "Colonel  Jack"  is  of 
this  description.     The  beginning  of  "  Colonel  Jack  " 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  253 

is  the  most  affecting  natural  picture  of  a  young  thief 
that  was  ever  drawn.  His  losing  the  stolen  money 
in  the  hollow  of  a  tree,  and  finding  it  again  when 
he  was  in  despair,  and  then  being  in  equal  distress 
at  not  knowing  how  to  dispose  of  it,  and  several 
similar  touches  in  the  early  history  of  the  Colonel, 
evince  a  deep  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and 
putting  out  of  question  the  superior  romantic  inter- 
est of  the  latter,  in  my  mind  \&xy  much  exceed 
"Crusoe."  "  Roxana  "  (first  edition)  is  the  next  in 
interest,  though  he  left  out  the  best  part  of  it  in 
subsequent  editions  from  a  foolish  hypercriticism  of 
his  friend  Southeme.  But  "  Moll  Flanders,"  the 
"Account  of  the  Plague,"  etc.,  are  all  of  one  family, 
and  have  the  same  stamp  of  character.  Believe 
me,  with  friendly  recollections  —  Brother  (as  I  used 
to  call  you),  Yours, 

C.  Lamb. 

LXXII. 

TO   BERNARD   BARTON. 

December  23,  1822. 
Dear  Sir,  —  I  have  been  so  distracted  with  busi- 
ness and  one  thing  or  other,  I  have  not  had  a  quiet 
quarter  of  an  hour  for  epistolary  purposes.  Christ- 
mas, too,  is  come,  which  ^always  puts  a  rattle  into 
my  morning  skull.  It  is  a  visiting,  unquiet,  un- 
quakerish  season.  I  get  more  and  more  in  love 
with  solitude,  and  proportionately  hampered  with 
company.  I  hope  yon  have  some  holidays  at  this 
period.     I  have  one  day,  —  Christmas  Day;  alas! 


254  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

too  few  to  commemorate  the  season.  All  work  and 
no  play  dulls  me.  Company  is  not  play,  but  many 
times  hard  work.  To  play,  is  for  a  man  to  do  what 
he  pleases,  or  to  do  nothing,  —  to  go  about  soothing 
his  particular  foncies.  I  have  lived  to  a  time  of  life 
to  have  outlived  the  good  hours,  the  nine-o'clock 
suppers,  with  a  bright  hour  or  two  to  clear  up  in 
afterwards.  Now  you  cannot  get  tea  before  that 
hour,  and  then  sit  gaping,  music-bothered  perhaps, 
till  half-past  twelve  brings  up  the  tray  ;  and  what 
you  steal  of  convivial  enjoyment  after,  is  heavily 
paid  for  in  the  disquiet  of  to-morrow's  head. 

I  am  pleased  with  your  liking  "John  Woodvil," 
and  amused  with  your  knowledge  of  our  drama 
being  confined  to  Shakspeare  and  Miss  BaiUie. 
What  a  world  of  fine  territory  between  Land's  End 
and  Johnny  Groat's  have  you  missed  traversing  !  I 
could  almost  envy  you  to  have  so  much  to  read.  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  read  all  the  books  I  want  to  read. 
Oh,  to  forget  Fielding,  Steele,  etc.,  and  read  'em 
new ! 

Can  you  tell  me  a  likely  place  where  I  could  pick 
up  cheap  Fox's  Journal?  There  are  no  Quaker 
circulating  libraries  ?  Elwood,  too,  I  must  have,  I 
rather  grudge  that  Southey  has  taken  up  the  history 
of  your  people ;  I  am  afraid  he  will  put  in  some 
levity.  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  quite  exempt  from 
that  fault  in  certain  magazine  articles,  where  I  have 
introduced  mention  of  them.  Were  they  to  do 
again,  I  would  reform  them.  Why  should  not  you 
write  a  poetical  account  of  your  old  worthies,  de- 
ducing them  from  Fox  to  Woolman  ?    But  I  remem- 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  255 

ber  you  did  talk  of  something  of  that  kind,  as  a 
counterpart  to  the  "  Ecclesiastical  Sketches."  But 
would  not  a  poem  be  more  consecutive  than  a 
string  of  sonnets  ?  You  have  no  martyrs  qtiiie  to  the 
fire,  I  think,  among  you,  but  plenty  of  heroic  con- 
fessors, spirit-martyrs,  lamb-hons.  Think  of  it ;  it 
would  be  better  than  a  series  of  sonnets  on  "  Emi- 
nent Bankers."  I  like  a  hit  at  our  way  of  life, 
though  it  does  well  for  me,  —  better  than  anything 
short  of  all  one's  time  to  one's  self ;  for  which  alone 
I  rankle  with  envy  at  the  rich.  Books  are  good, 
and  pictures  are  good,  and  money  to  buy  them 
therefore  good  ;  but  to  buy  time,  —  in  other  words, 
life! 

The  "  compliments  of  the  time  "  to  you,  should 
end  my  letter ;  to  a  Friend,  I  suppose,  I  must  say 
the  "  sincerity  of  the  season  :  "  I  hope  they  both 
mean  the  same.  With  excuses  for  this  hastily 
penned  note,  believe  me,  with  great  respect, 

C.  Lamb. 

LXXIIL 

TO  MISS   WORDSWORTH. 

M.ARY  perfectly  approves  of  the  appropriation  of 
the  feathers,  and  wishes  them  peacock's  for  your 
fair  niece's  sake. 

Christmas,  1822. 

Dear  Miss  Wordsworth,  —  I  had  just  written  the 
above  endearing  words  when  Monkhouse  tapped  me 
on  the  shoulder  with  an  invitation  to  cold  goose  pie, 
which  I  was  not  bird  of  that  sort  enough  to  decline. 


256  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Mrs.  Monkhouse,  I  am  most  happy  to  say,  is  better. 
Mary  has  been  tormented  with  a  rheumatism,  which 
is  leaving  her.  I  am  suffering  from  the  festivities 
of  the  season.  I  wonder  how  my  misused  carcase 
holds  it  out.  I  have  played  the  experimental  phi- 
losopher on  it,  that 's  certain.  Willy  shall  be  wel- 
come to  a  mince- pie  and  a  bout  at  commerce 
whenever  he  comes.  He  was  in  our  eye.  I  am 
glad  you  liked  my  new  year's  speculations ;  every- 
body likes  them,  except  the  author  of  the  "  Pleas- 
ures of  Hope."  Disappointment  attend  him  !  How 
I  like  to  be  liked,  and  ivhat  I  do  to  be  liked  !  They 
flatter  me  in  magazines,  newspapers,  and  all  the 
minor  reviews ;  the  Quarterlies  hold  aloof.  But 
they  must  come  into  it  in  time,  or  their  leaves  be 
waste  paper.  Salute  Trinity  Library  in  my  name. 
Two  special  things  are  worth  seeing  at  Cambridge,  — 
a  portrait  of  Cromwell  at  Sidney,  and  a  better  of 
Dr.  Harvey  (who  found  out  that  blood  was  red)  at 
Dr.  Davy's ;  you  should  see  them.  Coleridge  is 
pretty  well ;  I  have  not  seen  him,  but  hear  often 
of  him  from  Allsop,  who  sends  me  hares  and  pheas- 
ants twice  a  week ;  I  can  hardly  take  so  fast  as  he 
gives.  I  have  almost  forgotten  butcher's  meat  as 
plebeian.  Are  you  not  glad  the  cold  is  gone?  I 
find  winters  not  so  agreeable  as  they  used  to  be 
"when  winter  bleak  had  charms  forme."  I  cannot 
conjure  up  a  kind  similitude  for  those  snowy  flakes. 
Let  them  keep  to  twelfth-cakes  ! 

Mrs.  Paris,  our  Cambridge  friend,  has  been  in 
town.  You  do  not  know  the  Watfords  in  Trumping- 
ton  Street.     They  are  capital  people.     Ask  anybody 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  257 

you  meet,  who  is  the  biggest  woman  in  Cambridge, 
and  I  'II  hold  you  a  wager  they  '11  say  Mrs.  Smith ; 
she  broke  down  two  benches  in  Trinity  Gardens,  — 
one  on  the  confines  of  St.  John's,  which  occasioned  a 
litigation  between  the  Societies  as  to  repairing  it. 
In  warm  weather,  she  retires  into  an  ice-cellar  (lite- 
rally !),  and  dates  the  returns  of  the  years  from  a  hot 
Thursday  some  twenty  years  back.  She  sits  in  a 
room  with  opposite  doors  and  windows,  to  let  in 
a  thorough  draught,  which  gives  her  slenderer 
friends  tooth-aches.  She  is  to  be  seen  in  the  mar- 
ket every  morning  at  ten  cheapening  fowls,  which 
I  observe  the  Cambridge  poulterers  are  not  suffi- 
ciently careful  to  stump. 

Having  now  answered  most  of  the  points  con- 
tained in  your  letter,  let  me  end  with  assuring  you 
of  our  very  best  kindness,  and  excuse  Mary  for  not 
handling  the  pen  on  this  occasion,  especially  as  it 
has  fallen  into  so  much  better  hands  !  Will  Dr.  W. 
accept  of  my  respects  at  the  end  of  a  foolish  letter? 

C.  L. 


LXXIV. 

TO   MR.   AND   MRS.   BRUTON.i 

Jamiary  6,  1823. 
The  pig  was  above  my  feeble  praise.     It  was  a 
dear  pigmy.     There  was  some  contention  as  to  who 
should  have  the  ears ;  but  in  spite  of  his  obstinacy 

1  Hertfordshire  connections  of  the  Lambs. 
17 


258  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

(deaf  as  these  little  creatures  are  to  advice),  I  con- 
trived to  get  at  one  of  them. 

It  came  in  boots,  too,  which  I  took  as  a  favor. 
Generally  these  petty-toes,  pretty  toes  !  are  missing  ; 
but  I  suppose  he  wore  them  to  look  taller. 

He  must  have  been  the  least  of  his  race.  His 
little  foots  would  have  gone  into  the  silver  slipper. 
I  take  him  to  have  been  a  Chinese  and  a  female. 

If  Evelyn  could  have  seen  him,  he  would  never 
have  farrowed  two  such  prodigious  volumes,  seeing 
how  much  good  can  be  contained  in  —  how  small  a 
compass  ! 

He  crackled  delicately. 

I  left  a  blank  at  the  top  of  my  letter,  not  being 
determined  which  to  address  it  to  ;  so  f;irmer  and 
farmer's  wife  will  please  to  divide  our  thanks.  May 
your  granaries  be  full,  and  your  rats  empty,  and 
your  chickens  plump,  and  your  envious  neighbors 
lean,  and  your  laborers  busy,  and  you  as  idle  and 
as  happy  as  the  day  is  long  ! 

VIVE  l'agriculture  ! 

How  do  you  make  your  pigs  so  little  ? 
They  are  vastly  engaging  at  the  age  : 

I  was  so  myself. 
Now  I  am  a  disagreeable  old  hog, 
A  middle-aged  gentleman-and-a-half ; 
My  faculties  (thank  God  !)  are  not  much  impaired. 

I  have  my  sight,  hearing,  taste,  pretty  perfect,  and 
can  read  the  Lord's  Prayer  in  common  type,  by  the 
help  of  a  candle,  without  making  many  mistakes. 

Many  happy  returns,  not  of  the  pig,  but  of  the 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  259 

New  Year,  to  both.     Mary,  for  her  share  of  the  pig 
and  the  memoirs,  desires  to  send  the  same. 
Yours  truly, 


C.  Lamb. 


LXXV. 


TO   BERNARD   BARTON.i 

January  9,  1823. 

Throw  yourself  on  the  world  without  any  rational 
plan  of  support  beyond  what  the  chance  employ  of 
booksellers  would  afford  you  ! 

Throw  yourself,  rather,  my  dear  sir,  from  the 
steep  Tarpeian  rock  slap-dash  headlong  upon  iron 
spikes.  If  you  had  but  five  consolatory  minutes 
between  the  desk  and  the  bed,  make  much  of  them, 
and  live  a  century  in  them,  rather  than  turn  slave  to 
the  booksellers.  They  are  Turks  and  Tartars  when 
they  have  poor  authors  at  their  beck.  Hitherto 
you  have  been  at  arm's  length  from  them.  Come 
not  within  their  grasp.  I  have  known  many  authors 
want  for  bread,  some  repining,  others  envying  the 
blessed  security  of  a  counting-house,  all  agreeing 
they  had  rather  have  been  tailors,  vveavers,  —  what 
not,  —  rather  than  the  things  they  were.  I  have 
known  some  starved,  some  to  go  mad,  one  dear 
friend  literally  dying  in  a  workhouse.  You  know 
not   what  a    rapacious,  dishonest    set    these    book- 

1  The  Quaker  poet.  Mr.  Barton  was  a  clerk  in  the  bank 
of  the  Messrs.  Alexander,  of  Woodbridge,  in  Suffolk.  En- 
couraged by  his  literary  success,  he  thought  of  throwing  up 
his  clerkship  and  trusting  to  his  pen  for  a  livelihood,  —  a 
design  from  which  he  was  happily  diverted  by  his  friends. 


2  6o  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

sellers  are.  Ask  even  Southey,  who  (a  single  case 
almost)  has  made  a  fortune  by  book-drudgery,  what 
he  has  found  them.  Oh,  you  know  not  —  may  you 
never  know  !  —  the  miseries  of  subsisting  by  author- 
ship. 'T  is  a  pretty  appendage  to  a  situation  like 
yours  or  mine,  but  a  slavery,  worse  than  all  slavery, 
to  be  a  bookseller's  dependant,  to  drudge  your 
brains  for  pots  of  ale  and  breasts  of  mutton,  to 
change  your  free  thoughts  and  voluntary  numbers 
for  ungracious  task-work.  Those  fellows  hate  us. 
The  reason  I  take  to  be  that,  contrary  to  other 
trades,  in  which  the  master  gets  all  the  credit  (a 
jeweller  or  silversmith  for  instance),  and  the  jour- 
neyman, who  really  does  the  fine  work,  is  in  the 
background,  in  our  work  the  world  gives  all  the 
credit  to  us,  whom  they  consider  as  their  journeymen, 
and  therefore  do  they  hate  us,  and  cheat  us,  and 
oppress  us,  and  would  wring  the  blood  of  us  out, 
to  put  another  sixpence  in  their  mechanic  pouches  ! 
I  contend  that  a  bookseller  has  a  relative  honesty 
towards  authors,  not  like  his  honesty  to  the  rest  of 
the  world.  Baldwin,  who  first  engaged  me  as  Elia, 
has  not  paid  me  up  yet  (nor  any  of  us  without  re- 
peated mortifying  appeals).  Yet  liow  the  knave 
fawned  when  I  was  of  service  to  him  !  Yet  I  daresay 
the  fellow  is  punctual  in  setding  his  milk-score,  etc. 
Keep  to  your  bank,  and  the  bank  will  keep  you. 
Trust  not  to  the  public ;  you  may  hang,  starve, 
drown  yourself,  for  anything  that  worthy  personage 
cares.  I  bless  every  star  that  Providence,  not  see- 
ing good  to  make  me  independent,  has  seen  it  next 
good  to  settle  me  upon  the   stable    foundation  of 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  261 

Leadenhall.  Sit  down,  good  B.  B.,  in  the  banking- 
office  ;  what !  is  there  not  from  six  to  eleven  p.  m. 
six  days  in  the  week,  and  is  there  not  all  Sunday? 
Fie  !  what  a  superfluity  of  man's  time,  if  you  could 
think  so,  —  enough  for  relaxation,  mirth,  converse, 
poetry,  good  thoughts,  quiet  thoughts.  Oh,  the  cor- 
roding, torturing,  tormenting  thoughts  that  disturb 
the  brain  of  the  unlucky  wight  who  must  draw  upon 
it  for  daily  sustenance  !  Henceforth  I  retract  all 
my  foul  complaints  of  mercantile  employment ;  look 
upon  them  as  lovers'  quarrels.  I  was  but  half  in 
earnest.  Welcome,  dead  timber  of  a  desk,  that 
makes  me  liv^e  !  A  little  grumbling  is  a  wholesome 
medicine  for  the  spleen,  but  in  my  inner  heart  do  I 
approve  and  embrace  this  our  close,  but  unharass- 
ing,  way  of  life.  I  am  quite  serious.  If  you  can 
send  me  Fox,  I  will  not  keep  it  six  weeks,  and  will 
return  it,  with  warm  thanks  to  yourself  and  friend, 
without  blot  or  dog's-ear.  You  will  much  oblige 
me  by  this  kindness. 

Yours  tnily, 

C.  Lamb. 


LXXVI. 

^  TO    MISS    HUTCHINSON. 

April  25,  1S23. 

Dear  Miss  H.,  —  Mary  has  such  an  invincible  re- 
luctance to  any  epistolary  exertion  that  I  am  spar- 
ing her  a  mortification  by  taking  the  pen  from  her. 
The  plain  truth  is,  she  writes  such  a  mean,  detest- 
able hand  that  she  is  ashamed  of  the  formation  of 


262  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

her  letters.  There  is  an  essential  poverty  and  ab- 
jectness  in  the  frame  of  them.  They  look  like  beg- 
ging letters.  And  then  she  is  sure  to  omit  a  most 
substantial  word  in  the  second  draught  (for  she 
never  ventures  an  epistle  without  a  foul  copy  first) , 
which  is  obliged  to  be  interlined,  —  which  spoils  the 
neatest  epistle,  you  know.  Her  figures,  i,  2,  3,  4, 
etc.,  where  she  has  occasion  to  express  numerals,  as 
in  the  date  (25th  April,  1823),  are  not  figures,  but 
figurantes  ;  and  the  combined  posse  go  staggering 
up  and  down  shameless,  as  drunkards  in  the  day- 
time. It  is  no  better  when  she  rules  her  paper. 
Her  lines  "are  not  less  erring "  than  her  words; 
a  sort  of  unnatural  parallel  lines,  that  are  perpetu- 
ally threatening  to  meet,  — -  which,  you  know,  is  quite 
contrary  to  Euclid.  Her  very  blots  are  not  bold, 
like  this  \here  a  large  blot  is  inserted^  but  poor 
smears,  half  left  in  and  half  scratched  out,  with 
another  smear  left  in  their  place.  I  like  a  clear 
letter;  a  bold,  free  hand  and  a  fearless  flourish. 
Then  she  has  always  to  go  through  them  (a  second 
operation)  to  dot  her  /'s  and  cross  her  /'s.  I  don't 
think  she  could  make  a  corkscrew  if  she  tried,  — 
which  has  such  a  fine  effect  at  the  end  or  middle 
of  an  epistle,  and  fills  up. 

There  is  a  corkscrew  !  One  of  tlft  best  I  ever 
drew.-^  By  the  way,  what  incomparable  whiskey 
that  was  of  Monkhouse's  !  But  if  I  am  to  write  a 
letter,  let  me  begin,  and  not  stand  flourishing  like 
a  fencer  at  a  fair. 

1  Lamb  was  fond  of  this  flourish,  and  it  is  frequently  found 
in  his  letters. 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  263 

April  25,  1S23. 

Dear  jNIiss  H.,  —  It  gives  me  great  pleasure  [the 
letter  now  begins]  to  hear  that  you  got  down  so 
smoothly,  and  that  Mrs.  Monkhouse's  spirits  are  so 
good  and  enterprising.^  It  shows,  whatever  her  pos- 
ture may  be,  that  her  mind  at  least  is  not  supine.  I 
hope  the  excursion  will  enable  the  former  to  keep 
pace  with  its  outstripping  neighbor.  Pray  present 
our  kindest  wishes  to  her  and  all  (that  sentence 
should  properly  have  come  into  the  postscript ;  but 
we  airy,  mercurial  spirits,  there  is  no  keeping  us  in). 
"  Time  "  (as  was  said  of  one  of  us)  "  toils  after 
us  in  vain."  I  am  afraid  our  co-visit  with  Cole- 
ridge was  a  dream.  I  shall  not  get  away  before  the 
end  or  middle  of  June,  and  then  you  will  be  frog- 
hopping  at  Boulogne.  And  besides,  I  think  the 
Gilmans  would  scarce  trust  him  with  us ;  I  have 
a  malicious  knack  at  cutting  of  apron-strings.  The 
saints'  days  you  speak  of  have  long  since  fled  to 
heaven  with  Astrsea,  and  the  cold  piety  of  the  age 
lacks  fervor  to  recall  them ;  only  Peter  left  his  key, 
—  the  iron  one  of  the  two  that  "  shuts  amain,"  — 
and  that  is  the  reason  I  am  locked  up.  Meanwhile, 
of  afternoons  we  pick  up  primroses  at  Dalston,  and 
Mary  corrects  me  when  I  call  'em  cowslips.  God 
bless  you  all,  and  pray  remember  me  euphoniously 
to  Mr.  Gruvellegan.  That  Lee  Priory  must  be  a 
dainty  bower.  Is  it  built  of  flints?  and  does  it 
stand  at  Kingsgate? 

1  Miss  Hutchinson's  invalid  relative. 


264  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


LXXVII. 

TO   BERNARD   BARTON. 

Scptejriber  2,  1823. 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  What  will  you  not  say  to  my  not 
writing  ?  You  cannot  say  I  do  not  write  now.  Hes- 
sey  has  not  used  your  kind  sonnet,  nor  have  I  seen 
it.  Pray  send  me  a  copy.  Neither  have  I  heard  any 
more  of  your  friend's  MS.,  which  I  will  reclaim 
whenever  you  please.  When  you  come  London- 
ward,  you  will  find  me  no  longer  in  Covent  Garden  ; 
I  have  a  cottage  in  Colebrook  Row,  Islington,  — 
a  cottage,  for  it  is  detached ;  a  white  house,  with 
six  good  rooms.  The  New  River  (rather  elderly 
by  this  time)  runs  (if  a  moderate  walking  pace  can 
be  so  termed)  close  to  the  foot  of  the  house ;  and 
behind  is  a  spacious  garden  with  vines  (I  assure 
you),  pears,  strawberries,  parsnips,  leeks,  carrots, 
cabbages,  to  delight  the  heart  of  old  Alcinous. 
You  enter  without  passage  into  a  cheerful  dining- 
room,  all  studded  over  and  rough  with  old  books ; 
and  above  is  a  lightsome  drawing-room,  three  win- 
dows, full  of  choice  prints.  I  feel  like  a  great  lord, 
never  having  had  a  house  before. 

The  "  London,"  I  fear,  falls  off.  I  linger  among 
its  creaking  rafters,  like  the  last  rat ;  it  will  topple 
down  if  they  don't  get  some  buttresses.  They 
have  pulled  down  three,  —  Hazlitt,  Procter,  and 
their  best  stay,  kind,  light-hearted  Wainewright,  their 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  265 

Janus. ^  The  best  is,  neither  of  our  fortunes  is  con- 
cerned in  it. 

I  heard  of  you  from  Mr.  Pulham  this  morning, 
and  that  gave  a  fillip  to  my  laziness,  which  has  been 
intolerable  ;  but  I  am  so  taken  up  with  pruning  and 
gardening,  —  quite  a  new  sort  of  occupation  to  me. 
I  have  gathered  my  jargonels ;  but  my  Windsor 
pears  are  backward.  The  former  were  of  exquisite 
raciness.  I  do  now  sit  under  my  own  vine,  and 
contemplate  the  growth  of  vegetable  nature.  I  can 
now  understand  in  what  sense  they  speak  of  father 
Adam.  I  recognize  the  paternity  while  I  watch  my 
tulips.  I  almost  fell  with  him,  for  the  first  day  I 
turned  a  drunken  gardener  (as  he  let  in  the  ser- 
pent) into  my  Eden  ;  and  he  laid  about  him,  lop- 
ping off  some  choice  boughs,  etc.,  which  hung  over 
from  a  neighbor's  garden,  and  in  his  blind  zeal  laid 
waste  a  shade  which  had  sheltered  their  window 
from  the  gaze  of  passers-by.  The  old  gentlewoman 
(fury  made  her  not  handsome)  could  scarcely  be 
reconciled  by  all  my  fine  words.  There  was  no 
buttering  her  parsnips.  She  talked  of  the  law. 
What  a  lapse  to  commit  on  the  first  day  of  my 
happy  "  garden  state  "  ! 

I  hope  you  transmitted  the  Fox-Journal  to  its 
owner,  with  suitable  thanks.  Mr.  Cary,  the  Dante 
man,  dines  with  me  to-day.  He  is  a  mode  of  a 
country  parson,  lean  (as  a  curate  ought  to  be), 
modest,  sensible,   no  obtruder  of  church  dogmas, 

1  Wainewright,  the  notorious  poisoner,  who,  under  the 
name  of  "  Janus  Weathercock,"  contributed  various  frothy 
papers  on  art  and  literature  to  the  "  London  Magazine." 


2  66  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

quite  a  different  man  from  Southey.  You  would 
like  him.  Pray  accept  this  for  a  letter,  and  believe 
me,  with  sincere  regards,  yours, 

C.  L. 


LXXVIII. 

TO   MRS.  HAZLITT. 

N'ovember,  1823. 
Dear  Mrs.  H.,  —  Sitting  down  to  write  a  let- 
ter is  such  a  painful  operation  to  Mary  that  you 
must  accept  me  as  her  proxy.  You  have  seen  our 
house.  What  I  now  tell  you  is  literally  true.  Yes- 
terday week,  George  Dyer  called  upon  us,  at  one 
o'clock  {bright  noonday^,  on  his  way  to  dine  with 
Mrs.  Barbauld  at  Newington.  He  sat  with  Mary 
about  half  an  hour,  and  took  leave.  The  maid  saw 
him  go  out  from  her  kitchen  window,  but  suddenly 
losing  sight  of  him,  ran  up  in  a  fright  to  Mary. 
G.  D.,  instead  of  keeping  the  slip  that  leads  to  the 
gate,  had  deliberately,  staff  in  hand,  in  broad,  open 
day,  marched  into  the  New  River.^  He  had  not 
his  spectacles  on,  and  you  know  his  absence.  Who 
helped  him  out,  they  can  hardly  tell ;  but  between 
'em  they  got  him  out,  drenched  thro'  and  thro'. 
A  mob  collected  by  that  time,  and  accompanied 
him  in.  "  Send  for  the  doctor  !  "  they  said  ;  and 
a  one-eyed  fellow,  dirty  and  drunk,  was  fetched 
from  the  public-house  at  the  end,  where  it  seem 
he  lurks  for  the  sake  of  picking  up  water-practice, 

1  See  Elia-essay,  "Amicus  Redivivus." 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  267 

having  formerly  had  a  medal  from  the  Humane 
Society  for  some  rescue.  By  his  advice  the  patient 
was  put  between  blankets ;  and  when  I  came 
home  at  four  to  dinner,  I  found  G.  D.  a-bed,  and 
raving,  light-headed  with  the  brandy-and-water 
which  the  doctor  had  administered.  He  sang, 
laughed,  whimpered,  screamed,  babbled  of  guardian 
angels,  would  get  up  and  go  home ;  but  we  kept 
him  there  by  force ;  and  by  next  morning  he 
departed  sobered,  and  seems  to  have  received  no 
injury.^  All  my  friends  are  open-mouthed  about 
having  paling  before  the  river;  but  I  cannot  see 
that  because  a  .  .  .  lunatic  chooses  to  walk  into 
a  river,  with  his  eyes  open,  at  mid- day,  I  am  any 
the  more  likely  to  be  drowned  in  it,  coming  home 
at  midnight. 

1  In  the  "  Athenaeum  "  for  1835  Procter  says :  "  I  hap- 
pened to  call  at  Lamb's  house  about  ten  minutes  after  this 
accident ;  I  saw  before  me  a  train  of  water  running  from 
the  door  to  the  river.  Lamb  had  gone  for  a  surgeon  ;  the 
maid  was  running  about  distraught,  with  dry  clothes  on  one 
arm,  and  the  dripping  habiliments  of  the  involuntary  bather 
in  the  other.  Miss  Lamb,  agitated,  and  whimpering  forth 
'  Poor  Mr.  Dyer!  '  in  the  most  forlorn  voice,  stood  plunging 
her  hands  into  the  wet  pockets  of  his  trousers,  to  fish  up  the 
wet  coin.  Dyer  himself,  an  amiable  little  old  man,  who  took 
water  ?;/ternal]y  and  eschewed  strong  liquors,  lay  on  his 
host's  bed,  hidden  by  blankets  ;  his  head,  on  which  was  his 
short  gray  hair,  alone  peered  out ;  and  this,  having  been 
rubbed  dry  by  a  resolute  hand,  —  by  the  maid's,  I  believe, 
who  assisted  at  the  rescue,  —  looked  as  if  bristling  with  a 
thousand  needles.  Lamb,  moreover,  in  his  anxiety,  had 
administered  a  formidable  dose  of  cognac  and  water  to  the 
sufferer,  and  he  (used  only  to  the  simple  element)  babbled 
without  cessation." 


268  LETTERS   OE  CHARLES  LAMB. 


LXXIX. 

TO   BERNARD   BARTON. 

yanuary  9,  1824. 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  suc- 
cumb under  an  insurmountable  day-mare,  —  "a 
whoreson  lethargy,"  Falstaff  calls  it,  —  an  indispo- 
sition to  do  anything  or  to  be  anything ;  a  total 
deadness  and  distaste ;  a  suspension  of  vitality ; 
an  indifference  to  locality ;  a  numb,  soporifical 
good-for-nothingness ;  an  ossification  all  over ;  an 
oyster-like  insensibility  to  the  passing  events ;  a 
mind-stupor ;  a  brawny  defiance  to  the  needles 
of  a  thrusting-in  conscience?  Did  you  ever  have 
a  very  bad  cold,  with  a  total  irresolution  to  sub- 
mit to  water-gruel  processes?  This  has  been  for 
many  weeks  my  lot  and  my  excuse.  My  fingers 
drag  heavily  over  this  paper,  and  to  my  thinking 
it  is  three-and-twenty  furlongs  from  here  to  the  end 
of  this  demi-sheet.  I  have  not  a  thing  to  say ; 
nothing  is  of  more  importance  than  another.  I  am 
flatter  than  a  denial  or  a  pancake  ;  emptier  than 
Judge  Parke's  wig  when  the  head  is  in  it;  duller 
than  a  country  stage  when  the  actors  are  off  it,  — 
a  cipher,  an  o  !  I  acknowledge  life  at  all  only  by 
an  occasional  convulsional  cough  and  a  permanent 
phlegmatic  pain  in  the  chest.  I  am  weary  of  the 
world ;  life  is  weary  of  me.  My  day  is  gone  into 
twilight,  and  I  don't  think  it  worth  the  expense 
of  candles.      My  wick  hath  a  thief  in  it,  but  I  can't 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  269 

muster  courage  to  snuff  it.  I  inhale  suffocation ; 
I  can't  distinguish  veal  from  mutton  ;  nothing  inter- 
ests me.  'T  is  twelve  o'clock,  and  Thurtell  ^  is  just 
now  coming  out  upon  the  new  drop,  Jack  Ketch 
alertly  tucking  up  his  greasy  sleeves  to  do  the  last 
ofifice  of  mortality ;  yet  cannot  I  elicit  a  groan  or 
a  moral  reflection.  If  you  told  me  the  world  will 
be  at  an  end  to-morrow,  I  should  just  say,  "  Will 
it?  "  I  have  not  volition  enough  left  to  dot  my  /'s, 
much  less  to  comb  my  eyebrows  ;  my  eyes  are  set 
in  my  head  ;  my  brains  are  gone  out  to  see  a  poor 
relation  in  Moorfields,  and  they  did  not  say  when 
they  'd  come  back  again ;  my  skull  is  a  Grub  Street 
attic  to  let,  —  not  so  much  as  a  joint-stool  left 
in  it ;  my  hand  writes,  not  I,  from  habit,  as  chick- 
ens run  about  a  little  when  their  heads  are  off.  Oh 
for  a  vigorous  fit  of  gout,  colic,  toothache,  —  an 
earwig  in  my  auditory,  a  fly  in  my  visual  organs ; 
pain  is  life,  —  the  sharper  the  more  evidence  of 
life  ;  but  this  apathy,  this  death  !  Did  you  ever 
have  an  obstinate  cold,  —  a  six  or  seven  weeks' 
unintermitting  chill  and  suspension  of  hope,  fear, 
conscience,  and  everything?  Yet  do  I  try  all  I  can 
to  cure  it.  I  try  wine,  and  spirits,  and  smoking, 
and  snuff  in  unsparing  quantities ;  but  they  all  only 
seem  to  make  me  worse,  instead  of  better.  I  sleep 
in  a  damp  room,  but  it  does  me  no  good ;  I  come 
home  late  o'  nights,  but  do  not  find  any  visible 
amendment !  AVho  shall  deliver  me  from  the  body 
of  this  death? 

It  is  just  fifteen  minutes  after  twelve.     Thurtell  is 
1  Hanged  that  day  for  the  murder  of  Weare. 


2  70  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

by  this  time  a  good  way  on  his  journey,  baiting  at 

Scorpion,  perhaps.     Ketch  is  bargaining  for  his  cast 

coat  and  waistcoat ;   and  the  Jew  demurs  at  first  at 

three  half-crowns,  but  on  consideration  that  he  may 

get  somewhat  by  showing  'em  in  the  town,  finally 

closes. 

C.  L. 

LXXX. 

TO   BERNARD   BARTON. 

yainiary  23,  1824. 

My  dear  Sir,  —  That  peevish  letter  of  mine,^ 
which  was  meant  to  convey  an  apology  for  my 
incapacity  to  write,  seems  to  have  been  taken  by 
you  in  too  serious  a  light,  —  it  was  only  my  way  of 
telling  you  I  had  a  severe  cold.  The  fact  is,  I  have 
been  insuperably  dull  and  lethargic  for  many  weeks, 
and  cannot  rise  to  the  vigor  of  a  letter,  much  less 
an  essay.  The  "  London  "  must  do  without  me  for 
a  time,  for  I  have  lost  all  interest  about  it;  and 
whether  I  shall  recover  it  again  I  know  not.  I  will 
bridle  my  pen  another  time,  and  not  tease  and 
puzzle  you  with  my  aridities.  I  shall  begin  to  feel 
a  little  more  alive  with  the  spring. 

Winter  is  to  me  (mild  or  harsh)  always  a  great 
trial  of  the  spirits.  I  am  ashamed  not  to  have 
noticed  your  tribute  to  Woolman,  whom  we  love  so 
much;  it  is  done  in  your  good  manner.  Your 
friend  Tayler  called  upon  me  some  time  since,  and 
seems  a  very  amiable  man.     His  last  story  is  pain- 

1  Letter  LXXIX. 


LETTERS  OE  CHARLES  LAMB.  271 

fully  fine.  His  book  I  "  like  ;  "  it  is  only  too  stuffed 
with  Scripture,  too  parsonish.  The  best  thing  in  it 
is  the  boy's  own  story.  When  I  say  it  is  too  full  of 
Scripture,  I  mean  it  is  too  full  of  direct  quotations ; 
no  book  can  have  too  much  of  silent  Scripture  in  it. 
But  the  natural  power  of  a  story  is  diminished  when 
the  uppermost  purpose  in  the  writer  seems  to  be  to  re- 
commend something  else,  —  namely,  Religion.  You 
know  what  Horace  says  of  the  Deus  intersit  ?  I  am 
not  able  to  explain  myself,  —  you  must  do  it  for  me. 
My  sister's  part  in  the  "  Leicester  School  "  (about 
two  thirds)  was  purely  her  own  ;  as  it  was  (to  the 
same  quantity)  in  the  "  Shakspeare  Tales "  which 
bear  my  name.  I  wrote  only  the  "  Witch  Aunt," 
the  "  First  Going  to  Church,"  and  the  final  story 
about  "  A  little  Indian  girl  "  in  a  ship.  Your  account 
of  my  black-balling  amused  me.  I  think,  as  Quakers, 
they  did  right.  There  are  some  things  hard  to  be 
understood.  The  more  I  think,  the  more  I  am 
vexed  at  having  puzzled  you  with  that  letter ;  but  I 
have  been  so  out  of  letter-writing  of  late  years  that 
it  is  a  sore  effort  to  sit  down  to  it ;  and  I  felt  in 
your  debt,  and  sat  down  waywardly  to  pay  you  in 
bad  money.  Never  mind  my  dulness ;  I  am  used 
to  long  intervals  of  it.  The  heavens  seem  brass  to 
me  ;  then  again  comes  the  refreshing  shower,  — 

"  I  have  been  merry  twice  and  once  ere  now." 

You  said  something  about  Mr.  Mitford  in  a  late 
letter,  which  I  believe  I  did  not  advert  to.  I  shall 
be  happy  to  show  him  my  Milton  (it  is  all  the  show 
things  I  have)  at  any  time  he  will  take  the  trouble 


272  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES    LAMB. 

of  a  jaunt  to  Islington.  I  do  also  hope  to  see  Mr. 
Tayler  there  some  day.  Pray  say  so  to  both.  Cole- 
ridge's book  is  in  good  part  printed,  but  sticks  a 
little  for  more  copy.  It  bears  an  unsalable  title,  — 
"  Extracts  from  Bishop  Leighton ;  "  but  I  am  con- 
fident there  will  be  plenty  of  good  notes  in  it,  — 
more  of  Bishop  Coleridge  than  Leighton  in  it,  I 
hope  ;  for  what  is  Leighton  ?  Do  you  trouble  your- 
self about  libel  cases?  The  decision  against  Hunt 
for  the  "  Vision  of  Judgment  "  made  me  sick.  What 
is  to  become  of  the  good  old  talk  about  our  good 
old  king,  —  his  personal  virtues  saving  us  from  a 
revolution,  etc.?  Why,  none  that  think  can  ut- 
ter it  now.  It  must  stink.  And  the  "  Vision  "  is  as 
to  himward  such  a  tolerant,  good-humored  thing  ! 
What  a  wretched  thing  a  Lord  Chief  Justice  is, 
always  was,  and  will  be  ! 

Keep  your  good  spirits  up,  dear  B.  B.,  mine  will 
return ;  they  are  at  present  in  abeyance,  but  I  am 
rather  lethargic  than  miserable.  I  don't  know  but 
a  good  horsewhip  would  be  more  beneficial  to  me 
than  physic.  My  head,  without  aching,  will  teach 
yours  to  ache.  It  is  well  I  am  getting  to  the  con- 
clusion. I  will  send  a  better  letter  when  I  am  a 
better  man.  Let  me  thank  you  for  your  kind  con- 
cern for  me  (which  I  trust  will  have  reason  soon 
to  be  dissipated),  and  assure  you  that  it  gives  me 
pleasure  to  hear  from  you. 

Yours  truly, 

C.  L. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  273 

LXXXI. 

TO   BERNARD   BARTON 

April,  1824. 
Dear  B.  B., —  I  am  sure  I  cannot  fill  a  letter, 
though  I  should  disfurnish  my  skull  to  fill  it ;  but  you 
expect  something,  and  shall  have  a  notelet.  Is  Sun- 
day, not  divinely  speaking,  but  humanly  and  holiday- 
sically,  a  blessing?  Without  its  institution,  would 
our  rugged  taskmasters  have  given  us  a  leisure  day  so 
often,  think  you,  as  once  in  a  month  ?  or,  if  it  had 
not  been  instituted,  might  they  not  have  given  us 
every  sixth  day?  Solve  me  this  problem.  If  we  are 
to  go  three  times  a-day  to  church,  why  has  Sunday 
slipped  into  the  notion  of  a  hoiida.yl  A  HoLV-day,  I 
grant  it.  The  Puritans,  I  have  read  in  Southey's 
book,  knew  the  distinction.  They  made  people  ob- 
serve Sunday  rigorously,  would  not  let  a  nursery- 
maid walk  out  in  the  fields  with  children  for  recreation 
on  that  day.  But  then  they  gave  the  people  a  holi- 
day from  all  sorts  of  work  every  second  Tuesday. 
This  was  giving  to  the  two  Caesars  that  which  was 
his  respective.  Wise,  beautiful,  thoughtful,  generous 
legislators  !  Would  Wilberforce  give  us  our  Tues- 
days? No;  he  would  turn  the  six  days  into 
sevenths,  — 

"  And  those  three  smiling  seasons  of  the  year 
Into  a  Russian  winter." 

Old  Play. 

I  am   sitting  opposite   a  person  who   is   making 
strange  distortions  with  the  gout,  which  is  not  un- 
18 


2  74  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

pleasant,  —  to  me,  at  least.  What  is  the  reason  we 
do  not  sympathize  with  pain,  short  of  some  terrible 
surgical  operation?  Hazlitt,  who  boldly  says  all  he 
feels,  avows  that  not  only  he  does  not  pity  sick 
people,  but  he  hates  them,  I  obscurely  recognize 
his  meaning.  Pain  is  probably  too  selfish  a  con- 
sideration, too  simply  a  consideration  of  self-atten- 
tion. We  pity  poverty,  loss  of  friends,  etc.,  —  more 
complex  things,  in  which  the  sufferer's  feelings  are 
associated  with  others.  This  is  a  rough  thought 
suggested  by  the  presence  of  gout ;  I  want  head  to 
extricate  it  and  plane  it.  What  is  all  this  to  your 
letter?  I  felt  it  to  be  a  good  one,  but  my  turn, 
when  I  write  at  all,  is  perversely  to  travel  out  of 
the  record,  so  that  my  letters  are  anything  but 
answers.  So  you  still  want  a  motto?  You  must 
not  take  my  ironical  one,  because  your  book,  I  take 
it,  is  too  serious  for  it.  Bickerstaff  might  have  used 
it  for  his  lucubrations.  What  do  you  think  of  (for 
a  title)  Religio  Tremuli?  or  Tremebundi?  There 
is  Religio  Medici  and  Laici.  But  perhaps  the 
volume  is  not  quite  Quakerish  enough,  or  exclusively 
so,  for  it.  Your  own  "  Vigils  "  is  perhaps  the  best. 
While  I  have  space,  let  me  congratulate  with  you 
the  return  of  spring,  — what  a  summery  spring  too  ! 
All  those  qualms  about  the  dog  and  cray-fish^  melt 
before  it.  I  am  going  to  be  happy  and  vain  again. 
A  hasty  farewell, 

C.  Lamb. 

1  Lamb  had  confessed,  in  a  previous  letter  to  Barton,  to 
having  once  wantonly  set  a  dog  upon  a  cray-fish. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  275 

LXXXII. 

TO   BERNARD   BARTON. 

May  15,  1824. 
Dear  B.  B.,  —  I  am  oppressed  with  business  all 
day,  and  company  all  night.  But  I  will  snatch  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  Your  recent  acquisitions  of  the 
picture  and  the  letter  are  greatly  to  be  congratulated. 
I  too  have  a  picture  of  my  father  and  the  copy  of 
his  first  love-verses ;  but  they  have  been  mine  long. 
Blake  is  a  real  name,  I  assure  you,  and  a  most  ex- 
traordinary man,  if  he  is  still  living.  He  is  the 
Robert  [William]  Blake  whose  wild  designs  accom- 
pany a  splendid  foho  edition  of  the  "Night  Thoughts," 
which  you  may  have  seen,  in  one  of  which  he  pic- 
tures the  parting  of  soul  and  body  by  a  solid  mass  of 
human  form  floating  off,  God  knows  how,  from  a 
lumpish  mass  (fac-simile  to  itself)  left  behind  on 
the  dying  bed.  He  paints  in  water-colors  marvellous 
strange  pictures,  visions  of  his  brain,  which  he  asserts 
that  he  has  seen ;  they  have  great  merit.  He  has 
seen  the  old  Welsh  bards  on  Snowdon,  —  he  has  seen 
the  beautifuUest,  the  strongest,  and  the  ugliest  man, 
left  alone  from  the  massacre  of  the  Britons  by  the 
Romans,  and  has  painted  them  from  memory  (I 
have  seen  his  paintings),  and  asserts  them  to  be  as 
good  as  the  figures  of  Raphael  and  Angelo,  but  not 
better,  as  they  had  precisely  the  same  retro-visions 
and  prophetic  visions  with  themself  [himself] .  The 
painters  in  oil  (which  he  will  have  it  that  neither  of 
them  practised)  he  affirms  to  have  been  the  ruin  of 


276  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

art,  and  affirms  that  all  the  while  he  was  engaged  in 
his  Welsh  paintings,  Titian  was  disturbing  him,  — 
Titian  the  111  Genius  of  Oil  Painting.  His  pictures  — 
one  in  particular,  the  Canterbury  Pilgrims,  far  above 
Stothard  —  have  great  merit,  but  hard,  dry,  yet  with 
grace.  He  has  written  a  Catalogue  of  them,  with  a 
most  spirited  criticism  on  Chaucer,  but  mystical  and 
full  of  vision.  His  poems  have  been  sold  hitherto 
only  in  manuscript.  I  never  read  them;  but  a 
friend  at  my  desire  procured  the  "Sweep  Song." 
There  is  one  to  a  tiger,  which  I  have  heard  recited, 
beginning,  — 

"  Tiger,  Tiger,  burning  bright, 
Thro'  the  deserts  of  the  night," 

which  is  glorious,  but,  alas  !  I  have  not  the  book ; 
for  the  man  is  flown,  whither  I  know  not,  —  to 
Hades  or  a  madhouse.  But  I  must  look  on  him 
as  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  persons  of  the  age. 
Montgomery's  book  ^  I  have  not  much  hope  from, 
and  the  society  with  the  affected  name  ^  has  been 
laboring  at  it  for  these  twenty  years,  and  made  few 
converts.  I  think  it  was  injudicious  to  mix  stories, 
avowedly  colored  by  fiction,  with  the  sad,  true  state- 
ments from  the  parliamentary  records,  etc.  But  I 
wish  the  little  negroes  all  the  good  that  can  come 
from  it.  I  battered  my  brains  (not  buttered  them, 
—  but  it  is  a  bad  a)  for  a  few  verses  for  them,  but 

^  "The  Chimney-Sweeper's  Friend,  and  Climbing-Boy's 
Album," — a  book,  by  James  Montgomery,  setting  forth  the 
wrongs  of  the  little  chimney-sweepers,  for  whose  relief  a 
society  had  been  started. 

2  The  Society  for  Ameliorating  the  Condition  of  Infant 
Chimney-Sweepers. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  277 

I  could  make  nothing  of  it.  You  have  been  luckier. 
But  Blake's  are  the  flower  of  the  set,  you  will,  I  am 
sure,  agree;  though  some  of  Montgomery's  at  the 
end  are  pretty,  but  the  Dream  awkwardly  para- 
phrased from  B. 

With  the  exception  of  an  Epilogue  for  a  Private 
Theatrical,  I  have  written  nothing  new  for  near  six 
months.  It  is  in  vain  to  spur  me  on.  I  must  wait. 
I  cannot  write  without  a  genial  impulse,  and  I  have 
none.  'T  is  barren  all  and  dearth.  No  matter ; 
life  is  something  without  scribbling.  I  have  got 
rid  of  my  bad  spirits,  and  hold  up  pretty  well  this 
rain-damned  May. 

So  we  have  lost  another  poet.^  I  never  much 
relished  his  Lordship's  mind,  and  shall  be  sorry  if 
the  Greeks  have  cause  to  miss  him.  He  was  to  me 
offensive,  and  I  never  can  make  out  his  real  power, 
which  his  admirers  talk  of.  Why,  a  line  of  Words- 
worth's is  a  lever  to  hft  the  immortal  spirit ;  Byron 
can  only  move  the  spleen.  He  was  at  best  a  satir- 
ist. In  any  other  way,  he  was  mean  enough.  I 
daresay  I  do  him  injustice  ;  but  I  cannot  love  him, 
nor  squeeze  a  tear  to  his  memory.  He  did  not  like 
the  world,  and  he  has  left  it,  as  Alderman  Curtis 
advised  the  Radicals,  "  if  they  don't  like  their  coun- 
try, damn  'em,  let  'em  leave  it,"  they  possessing  no 
rood  of  ground  in  England,  and  he  ten  thousand 
acres.    Byron  was  better  than  many  Curtises. 

Farewell,  and  accept  this  apology  for  a  letter  from 
one  who  owes  you  so  much  in  that  kind. 

Yours  ever  truly,  C.  L. 

1  Byron  had  died  on  April  19. 


278  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


LXXXIII. 

TO    BERNARD    BARTON. 


August,  1824. 


I  CAN  no  more  understand  Shelley  than  you  can  ; 
his  poetry  is  "  thin  sown  with  profit  or  delight." 
Yet  I  must  point  to  your  notice  a  sonnet  conceived 
and  expressed  with  a  witty  delicacy.  It  is  that  ad- 
dressed to  one  who  hated  him,  but  who  could  not 
persuade  him  to  hate  him  again.  His  coyness  to 
the  other's  passion  —  for  hate  demands  a  return  as 
much  as  love,  and  starves  without  it  —  is  most  arch 
and  pleasant.  Pray,  like  it  very  much.  For  his 
theories  and  nostrums,  they  are  oracular  enough,  but 
I  either  comprehend  'em  not,  or  there  is  "  miching 
malice  "  and  mischief  in  'em,  but,  for  the  most  part, 
ringing  with  their  own  emptiness.  Hazlitt  said  well 
of  'em  :  "  Many  are  the  wiser  and  better  for  read- 
ing Shakspeare,  but  nobody  was  ever  wiser  or  better 
for  reading  Shelley."  I  wonder  you  will  sow  your 
correspondence  on  so  barren  a  ground  as  I  am,  that 
make  such  poor  returns.  But  my  head  aches  at  the 
bare  thought  of  letter-writing.  I  wish  all  the  ink  in 
the  ocean  dried  up,  and  would  listen  to  the  quills  shiv- 
ering up  in  the  candle  flame,  like  parching  martyrs. 
The  same  indisposition  to  write  it  is  has  stopped  my 
"Elias;  "  but  you  will  see  a  futile  effort  in  the  next 
number,^  "  wrung  from  me  with   slow  pain."     The 

'  The  essay  "  Blakesmoor  in  Hertfordshire,"  in  the  "Lon- 
don Magazine  "  for  September,  1824. 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  279 

fact  is,  my  head  is  seldom  cool  enough.  I  am 
dreadfully  indolent.  To  have  to  do  anything  —  to 
order  me  a  new  coat,  for  instance,  though  my  old 
buttons  are  shelled  like  beans  —  is  an  effort.  My 
pen  stammers  like  my  tongue.  What  cool  craniums 
those  old  inditers  of  folios  must  have  had,  what  a 
mortified  pulse  !  Well,  once  more  I  throw  my- 
self on   your  mercy.     Wishing  peace   in  thy   new 

dwelling, 

C.  Lamb. 

LXXXIV. 

TO  BERNARD   BARTON. 

December  i,  1824. 

Taylor  and  Hessey,  finding  their  magazine  ^  goes 
off  very  heavily  at  2s.  6d.,  are  prudently  going  to 
raise  their  price  another  shilling;  and  having  al- 
ready more  authors  than  they  want,  intend  to  in- 
crease the  number  of  them.  If  they  set  up  against 
the  "  New  Monthly,"  they  must  change  their  present 
hands.  It  is  not  tying  the  dead  carcase  of  a  review 
to  a  half-dead  magazine  will  do  their  business.  It 
is  like  George  Dyer  multiplying  his  volumes  to  make 
'em  sell  better.  When  he  finds  one  will  not  go  off, 
he  publishes  two ;  two  stick,  he  tries  three  ;  three 
hang  fire,  he  is  confident  that  four  will  have  a  better 
chance. 

1  Taylor  and  Hessey  succeeded  John  Scott  as  editors  of 
the  "  London  Magazine  "  (of  which  they  were  also  publishers), 
and  it  was  to  this  periodical  that  most  of  Lamb's  Elia 
Essays  were  contributed. 


28 o     LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

And  now,  my  dear  sir,  trifling  apart,  the  gloomy 
catastrophe  of  yesterday  morning  prompts  a  sadder 
vein.  The  fate  of  the  unfortunate  Fauntleroy^ 
makes  me,  whether  I  will  or  no,  to  cast  reflecting 
eyes  around  on  such  of  my  friends  as,  by  a  parity 
of  situation,  are  exposed  to  a  similarity  of  tempta- 
tion. My  very  style  seems  to  myself  to  become 
more  impressive  than  usual,  with  the  change  of 
theme.  Who,  that  standeth,  knoweth  but  he  may 
yet  fall  ?  Your  hands  as  yet,  I  am  most  willing  to 
believe,  have  never  deviated  into  others'  property ; 
you  think  it  impossible  that  you  could  ever  commit 
so  heinous  an  offence.  But  so  thought  Fauntleroy 
once ;  so  have  thought  many  besides  him,  who  at 
last  have  expiated  as  he  hath  done.  You  are  as  yet 
upright ;  but  you  are  a  banker,  —  at  least,  the  next 
thing  to  it.  I  feel  the  delicacy  of  the  subject ;  but 
cash  must  pass  through  your  hands,  sometimes  to  a 
great  amount.  If  in  an  unguarded  hour —  But  I  will 
hope  better.  Consider  the  scandal  it  will  bring  upon 
those  of  your  persuasion.  Thousands  would  go  to 
see  a  Quaker  hanged,  that  would  be  indifferent  to 
the  fate  of  a  Presbyterian  or  an  Anabaptist.  Think 
of  the  effect  it  would  have  on  the  sale  of  your  poems 
alone,  not  to  mention  higher  considerations  !  I  trem- 
ble, I  am  sure,  at  myself,  when  I  think  that  so  many 
poor  victims  of  the  law,  at  one  time  of  their  life, 
made  as  sure  of  never  being  hanged  as  I,  in  my  pre- 
sumption, am  too  ready  to  do  myself.  What  are  we 
better  than  they?     Do  we  come  into  the  world  with 

1  The  forger,  hanged  Nov.  30,  1824.  This  was  the  last 
execution  for  this  offence. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  28 1 

different  necks?  Is  there  any  distinctive  mark  un- 
der our  left  ears?  Are  we  unstrangulable,  I  ask 
you?  Think  of  these  things.  I  am  shocked  some- 
times at  the  shape  of  my  own  fingers,  not  for  their 
resemblance  to  the  ape  tribe  (which  is  something), 
but  for  the  exquisite  adaptation  of  them  to  the  pur- 
poses of  picking  fingering,  etc.  No  one  that  is  so 
framed,  I  maintain  it,  but  should  tremble. 

C.  L. 

LXXXV. 

TO    BERNARD    BARTON. 

March  23,  1825. 
Dear  B.  B.,  —  I  have  had  no  impulse  to  write,  or 
attend  to  any  single  object  but  myself  for  weeks 
past, — my  single  self,  I  by  myself,  I.  I  am  sick 
of  hope  deferred.  The  grand  wheel  is  in  agitation 
that  is  to  turn  up  my  fortune  ;  but  round  it  rolls, 
and  will  turn  up  nothing.  I  have  a  glimpse  of  free- 
dom, of  becoming  a  gentleman  at  large  ;  but  I  am 
put  off  from  day  to  day.  I  have  offered  my  resigna- 
tion, and  it  is  neither  accepted  nor  rejected.  Eight 
weeks  am  I  kept  in  this  fearful  suspense.  Guess 
what  an  absorbing  stake  I  feel  it.  I  am  not  con- 
scious of  the  existence  of  friends  present  or  absent. 
The  East  India  Directors  alone  can  be  that  thing  to 
me  or  not.  I  have  just  learned  that  nothing  will 
be  decided  this  week.  Why  the  next?  Why  any 
week?  It  has  fretted  me  into  an  itch  of  the  fin- 
gers ;  I  rub  'em  against  paper,  and  write  to  you, 
rather  than  not  allay  this  scorbuta. 


282  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

While  I  can  write,  let  me  adjure  you  to  have  no 
doubts  of  Irving.  Let  Mr.  Mitford  drop  his  disre- 
spect. Irving  has  prefixed  a  dedication  (of  a  mis- 
sionary subject,  first  part)  to  Coleridge,  the  most 
beautiful,  cordial,  and  sincere.  He  there  acknowl- 
edges his  obligation  to  S.  T.  C.  for  his  knowledge  of 
Gospel  truths,  the  nature  of  a  Christian  Church, 
etc.,  —  to  the  talk  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  (at 
whose  Gamaliel  feet  he  sits  weekly),  rather  than  to 
that  of  all  the  men  living.  This  from  him,  the  great 
dandled  and  petted  sectarian,  to  a  religious  char- 
acter so  equivocal  in  the  world's  eye  as  that  of 
S.  T.  C,  so  foreign  to  the  Kirk's  estimate,  —  can 
this  man  be  a  quack  ?  The  language  is  as  affecting 
as  the  spirit  of  the  dedication.  Some  friend  told 
him,  "  This  dedication  will  do  you  no  good,"  —  /.  e., 
not  in  the  world's  repute,  or  with  your  own  people. 
"  That  is  a  reason  for  doing  it,"  quoth  Irving. 

I  am  thoroughly  pleased  with  him.  He  is  firm, 
out-speaking,  intrepid,  and  docile  as  a  pupil  of 
Pythagoras.     You  must  like  him. 

Yours,  in  tremors  of  painful  hope, 

C.  Lamb. 


LXXXVI. 

TO  WORDSWORTH 

April  6,  1S25 

Dear  Wordsworth,  —  I  have  been  several  times 
meditating  a  letter  to  you  concerning  the  good 
thing  which  has    befallen   me ;  but  the  thought  of 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB  283 

poor  ]\Ionkhouse^  came  across  me.  He  was  one 
that  I  had  exulted  in  the  prospect  of  congratulating 
me.  He  and  you  were  to  have  been  the  first  par- 
ticipators ;  for  indeed  it  has  been  ten  weeks  since 
the  first  motion  of  it.  Here  am  I  then,  after  thirty- 
three  years'  slavery,  sitting  in  my  own  room  at 
eleven  o'clock  this  finest  of  all  April  mornings,  a 
freed  man,  with  ^^441  a  year  for  the  remainder  of 
my  life,  live  I  as  long  as  John  Dennis,  who  outlived 
his  annuity  and  starved  at  ninety:  ^441;  /.  e., 
;^45o,  with  a  deduction  of  ;^9  for  a  provision  se- 
cured to  my  sister,  she  being  survivor,  the  pension 
guaranteed  by  Act  Georgii  Tertii,  etc. 

I  came  home  forever  on  Tuesday  in  last  week. 
The  incomprehensibleness  of  my  condition  over- 
whelmed me  ;  it  was  like  passing  from  life  into 
eternity.  Every  year  to  be  as  long  as  three,  /.  e., 
to  have  three  times  as  much  real  time  —  time  that 
is  my  own  —  in  it !  I  wandered  about  thinking  I 
was  happy,  but  feeling  I  was  not.  But  that  tumul- 
tuousness  is  passing  off,  and  I  begin  to  understand 
the  nature  of  the  gift.  Holidays,  even  the  annual 
month,  were  always  uneasy  joys,  —  their  conscious 
fugitiveness ;  the  craving  after  making  the  most 
of  them.  Now,  when  all  is  holiday,  there  are  no 
holidays.  I  can  sit  at  home,  in  rain  or  shine,  with- 
out a  restless  impulse  for  walkings.  I  am  daily 
steadying,  and  shall  soon  find  it  as  natural  to  me 
to  be  my  own  master  as  it  has  been  irksome  to 
have  had    a    master.     Mary  wakes   every  morning 

1  Wordsworth's  cousin,  who  was  ill  of  consumption  in 
Devonshire.     He  died  the  following  year. 


284  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

with  an  obscure  feeling  that  some  good  has  happened 
to  us. 

Leigh  Hunt  and  Montgomery,  after  their  release- 
ments,  describe  the  shock  of  their  emancipation 
much  as  I  feel  mine.  But  it  hurt  their  frames.  1 
eat,  drink,  and  sleep  sound  as  ever.  I  lay  no  anx- 
ious schemes  for  going  hither  and  thither,  but  take 
things  as  they  occur.  Yesterday  I  excursioned 
twenty  miles ;  to-day  I  write  a  few  letters.  Pleas- 
uring was  for  fugitive  play-days ;  mine  are  fugitive 
only  in  the  sense  that  life  is  fugitive.  Freedom 
and  life  co-existent ! 

At  the  foot  of  such  a  call  upon  you  for  gratula- 
tion,  I  am  ashamed  to  advert  to  that  melancholy 
event.  Monkhouse  was  a  character  I  learned  to 
love  slowly ;  but  it  grew  upon  me  yearly,  monthly, 
daily.  What  a  chasm  has  it  made  in  our  pleasant 
parties  !  His  noble,  friendly  face  was  always  coming 
before  me,  till  this  hurrying  event  in  my  life  came, 
and  for  the  time  has  absorbed  all  interest ;  in  fact, 
it  has  shaken  me  a  little.  My  old  desk  companions, 
with  whom  I  have  had  such  merry  hours,  seem  to 
reproach  me  for  removing  my  lot  from  among  them. 
They  were  pleasant  creatures  ;  but  to  the  anxieties 
of  business,  and  a  weight  of  possible  worse  ever 
impending,  I  was  not  equal.  Tuthill  and  Oilman 
gave  me  my  certificates ;  I  laughed  at  the  friendly 
lie  implied  in  them.  But  my  sister  shook  her  head, 
and  said  it  was  all  true.  Indeed,  this  last  winter  I 
was  jaded  out  \  winters  were  always  worse  than 
other  parts  of  the  year,  because  the  spirits  are 
worse,  and  I  had  no  daylight.     In  summer  I  had 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  2S5 

daylight  evenings.  The  rehef  was  hinted  to  me 
from  a  superior  power  when  I,  poor  slave,  had  not 
a  hope  but  that  I  must  wait  another  seven  years 
with  Jacob ;  and  lo  !  the  Rachel  which  I  coveted 
is  brought  to  me. 


LXXXVII. 

TO    BERNARD   BARTON. 

April  6,  1825. 

Dear  B.  B.,  — My  spirits  are  so  tumultuary  with 
the  novelty  of  my  recent  emancipation  that  I  have 
scarce  steadiness  of  hand,  much  more  mind,  to 
compose  a  letter.     I  am  free,  B.  B.,  —  free  as  air  ! 

"  The  little  bird  that  wings  the  sky 
Knows  no  such  liberty."  1 

I   was   set  free   on  Tuesday  in   last  week  at   four 
o'clock.     I  came  home  forever  ! 

I  have  been  describing  my  feelings  as  well  as  I 
can  to  Wordsworth  in  a  long  letter,  and  don't  care 
to  repeat.  Take  it,  briefly,  that  for  a  few  days  I 
was  painfully  oppressed  by  so  mighty  a  change  ;  but 
it  is  becoming  daily  more  natural  to  me.  I  went 
and  sat  among  'em  all  at  my  old  thirty-three-years' 
desk  yester-morning ;  and,  deuce  take  me,  if  I  had 
not  yearnings  at  leaving  all  my  old  pen-and-ink 
fellows,  merry,  sociable   lads,  —  at  leaving  them  in 

1  "  The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 
Know  no  such  liberty." 

Lovelace. 


286  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

the   lurch,   fag,  fag,   fag  !     The   comparison    of   my 
own  superior  feUcity  gave  me  anything  but  pleasure. 

B.  B.,  I  would  not  serve  another  seven  years  for 
seven  hundred  thousand  pounds  !  I  have  got  ^44 1 
net  for  life,  sanctioned  by  Act  of  Parliament,  with  a 
provision  for  Mary  if  she  survives  me.  I  will  live 
another  fifty  years  ;  or  if  I  live  but  ten,  they  will  be 
thirty,  reckoning  the  quantity  of  real  time  in  them, 
—  /.  e.,  the  time  that  is  a  man's  own.  Tell  me  how 
you  like  "  Barbara  S. ;  "  ^  will  it  be  received  in  atone- 
ment for  the  foolish  "Vision,"  —  I  mean  by  the 
lady?  A  propos,  I  never  saw  Mrs.  Crawford  in  my 
life  ;  nevertheless,  it 's  all  true  of  somebody. 

Address  me,  in  future,  Colebrooke  Cottage,  Isling- 
ton.    I  am  really  nervous  (but  that  will  wear  off)  ; 
so  take  this  brief  announcement. 
Yours  truly. 


LXXXVIII. 

TO   BERNARD   BARTON. 


C.    L. 


July  2,  1825. 


I  AM  hardly  able  to  appreciate  your  volume 
now  ;  ^  but  I  liked  the  dedication  much,  and  the 
apology  for  your  bald  burying  grounds.  To  Shelley 
—  but  that  is  not  new.  To  the  young  Vesper- 
singer,  Great  Bealings,  Playford,  and  what  not. 

If  there  be  a  cavil,  it  is  that  the  topics  of  religious 
consolation,  however  beautiful,  are  repeated    till  a 

1  The  Elia  essay.  Fanny  Kelly  was  the  original  of 
"Barbara  S." 

-  Barton's  volume  of  Poems. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  287 

sort  of  triteness  attends  them.  It  seems  as  if  you 
were  forever  losing  Friends'  children  by  death,  and 
reminding  their  parents  of  the  Resurrection.  Do 
children  die  so  often  and  so  good  in  your  parts? 
The  topic  taken  from  the  consideration  that  they 
are  snatched  away  from  possible  vanities  seems 
hardly  sound ;  for  to  an  Omniscient  eye  their  con- 
ditional failings  must  be  one  with  their  actual.  But 
I  am  too  unwell  for  theolog}^ 

Such  as  I  am, 
I  am  yours  and  A.  K.'s  truly, 

C.  Lamb. 

LXXXIX. 

TO   BERNARD   BARTON. 

Attgust  10,  1825. 
We  shall  be  soon  again  at  Colebrooke. 

Dear  B.  B., — You  must  excuse  my  not  writing 
before,  when  I  tell  you  we  are  on  a  visit  at  Enfield, 
where  I  do  not  feel  it  natural  to  sit  down  to  a  letter. 
It  is  at  all  times  an  exertion.  I  had  rather  talk 
with  you  and  Anne  Knight  quietly  at  Colebrooke 
Lodge  over  the  matter  of  your  last.  You  mistake 
me  when  you  express  misgivings  about  my  relishing 
a  series  of  Scriptural  poems.  I  wrote  confusedly ; 
what  I  meant  to  say  was,  that  one  or  two  consola- 
tory poems  on  deaths  would  have  had  a  more 
condensed  effect  than  many.  Scriptural,  devo- 
tional topics,  admit  of  infinite  variety.  So  far 
from  poetry  tiring  me  because  religious,  I  can  read, 


288  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

and  I  say  it  seriously,  the  homely  old  version  of  the 
Psalms  in  our  Prayer-books  for  an  hour  or  two 
together  sometimes,  without  sense  of  weariness. 

I  did  not  express  myself  clearly  about  what  I 
think  a  false  topic,  insisted  on  so  frequently  in  con- 
solatory addresses  on  the  death  of  infants.  I  know 
something  like  it  is  in  Scripture,  but  I  think  hu- 
manly spoken.  It  is  a  natural  thought,  a  sweet 
fallacy,  to  the  survivors,  but  still  a  fallacy.  If  it 
stands  on  the  doctrine  of  this  being  a  probationary 
state,  it  is  liable  to  this  dilemma.  Omniscience,  to 
whom  possibility  must  be  clear  as  act,  must  know  of 
the  child  what  it  would  hereafter  turn  out :  if  good, 
then  the  topic  is  false  to  say  it  is  secured  from  fall- 
ing into  future  wilfulness,  vice,  etc.  If  bad,  I  do 
not  see  how  its  exemption  from  certain  future  overt 
acts  by  being  snatched  away  at  all  tells  in  its  favor. 
You  stop  the  arm  of  a  murderer,  or  arrest  the  finger 
of  a  pickpurse ;  but  is  not  the  guilt  incurred  as 
much  by  the  intent  as  if  never  so  much  acted? 
Why  children  are  hurried  off,  and  old  reprobates  of  a 
hundred  left,  whose  trial  humanly  we  may  think  was 
complete  at  fifty,  is  among  the  obscurities  of  provi- 
dence. The  very  notion  of  a  state  of  probation  has 
darkness  in  it.  The  All-knower  has  no  need  of 
satisfying  his  eyes  by  seeing  what  we  will  do,  when 
he  knows  before  what  we  will  do.  Methinks  we 
might  be  condemned  before  commission.  In  these 
things  we  grope  and  flounder ;  and  if  we  can  pick 
up  a  little  human  comfort  that  the  child  taken  is 
snatched  from  vice  (no  great  compliment  to  it,  by 
the  by),  let  us  take  it.     And  as  to  where  an  untried 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  289 

child  goes,  whether  to  join  the  assembly  of  its  elders 
who  have  borne  the  heat  of  the  day,  —  fire- purified 
martyrs  and  torment-sifted  confessors,  —  what  know 
we?  We  promise  heaven,  methinks,  too  cheaply, 
and  assign  large  revenues  to  minors  incompetent  to 
manage  them.  Epitaphs  run  upon  this  topic  of 
consolation  till  the  very  frequency  induces  a  cheap- 
ness. Tickets  for  admission  into  paradise  are  sculp- 
tured out  a  penny  a  letter,  twopence  a  syllable,  etc. 
It  is  all  a  mystery ;  and  the  more  I  try  to  express 
my  meaning  (having  none  that  is  clear),  the  more  I 
flounder.  Finally,  write  what  your  own  conscience, 
which  to  you  is  the  unerring  judge,  deems  best,  and 
be  careless  about  the  whimsies  of  such  a  half-baked 
notionist  as  I  am.  We  are  here  in  a  most  pleasant 
country,  full  of  walks,  and  idle  to  our  heart's  desire. 
Taylor  has  dropped  the  "  London."  It  was  indeed 
a  dead  weight.  It  had  got  in  the  Slough  of  De- 
spond. I  shuffle  off  my  part  of  the  pack,  and  stand, 
like  Christian,  with  light  and  merry  shoulders.  It 
had  got  silly,  indecorous,  pert,  and  everything  that 
is  bad.  Both  our  kind  remembrances  to  Mrs.  K. 
and  yourself,  and  strangers'-greeting  to  Lucy,  —  is  it 
Lucy,  or  Ruth  ?  —  that  gathers  wise  sayings  in  a 
Book. 

C.  Lamb. 

XC. 

TO  SOUTHEY. 

Aitgjdt  19,  1S25. 
Dear  Southey,  —  You'll  know  whom  this  letter 
comes  from  by  opening  slap-dash  upon  the  text,  as 
19 


290  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

in  the  good  old  times.  I  never  could  come  into  the 
custom  of  envelopes,  —  't  is  a  modern  foppery ;  the 
Plinian  correspondence  gives  no  hint  of  such.  In 
singleness  of  sheet  and  meaning,  then,  I  thank  you 
for  your  little  book.  I  am  ashamed  to  add  a  codicil 
of  thanks  for  your  "  Book  of  the  Church."  I  scarce 
feel  competent  to  give  an  opinion  of  the  latter ;  I 
have  not  reading  enough  of  that  kind  to  venture  at 
it.  I  can  only  say  the  fact,  that  I  have  read  it  with 
attention  and  interest.  Being,  as  you  know,  not 
quite  a  Churchman,  I  felt  a  jealousy  at  the  Church 
taking  to  herself  the  whole  deserts  of  Christianity, 
Catholic  and  Protestant,  from  Druid  extirpation 
downwards.  I  call  all  good  Christians  the  Church, 
Capillarians  and  all.  But  I  am  in  too  light  a  humor 
to  touch  these  matters.  May  all  our  churches 
flourish  !  Two  things  staggered  me  in  the  poem 
(and  one  of  them  staggered  both  of  us)  :  I  cannot 
away  with  a  beautiful  series  of  verses,  as  I  protest 
they  are,  commencing  "  Jenner."  'Tis  like  a 
choice  banquet  opened  with  a  pill  or  an  electuary,  — 
physic  stuff.  T'  other  is,  we  cannot  make  out  how 
Edith  should  be  no  more  than  ten  years  old.  By  'r 
Lady,  we  had  taken  her  to  be  some  sixteen  or  up- 
wards. We  suppose  you  have  only  chosen  the  round 
number  for  the  metre.  Or  poem  and  dedication 
may  be  both  older  than  they  pretend  to,  —  but  then 
some  hint  might  have  been  given ;  for,  as  it  stands, 
it  may  only  serve  some  day  to  puzzle  the  parish 
reckoning.  But  without  inquiring  further  (for  't  is 
ungracious  to  look  into  a  lady's  years) ,  the  dedica- 
tion is  eminently  pleasing  and  tender,  and  we  wish 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  291 

Edith  May  Southey  joy  of  it.  Something,  too, 
struck  us  as  if  we  had  heard  of  the  death  of  John 
May.  A  John  May's  death  was  a  few  years  since  in 
the  papers.  We  think  the  tale  one  of  the  quietest, 
prettiest  things  we  have  seen.  You  have  been  tem- 
perate in  the  use  of  locaUties,  which  generally  spoil 
poems  laid  in  exotic  regions.  You  mostly  cannot 
stir  out  (in  such  things)  for  humming-birds  and  fire- 
flies. A  tree  is  a  Magnolia,  etc.  —  Can  I  but  like 
the  truly  Catholic  spirit?  "Blame  as  thou  mayest 
the  Papist's  erring  creed,"  —  which  and  other  pass- 
ages brought  me  back  to  the  old  Anthology  days 
and  the  admonitory  lesson  to  "  Dear  George  "  on 
"The  Vesper  Bell,"  a  little  poem  which  retains  its 
first  hold  upon  me  strangely. 

The  compliment  to  the  translatress  is  daintily 
conceived.  Nothing  is  choicer  in  that  sort  of  writ- 
ing than  to  bring  in  some  remote,  impossible  paral- 
lel,— as  between  a  great  empress  and  the  inobtrusive, 
quiet  soul  who  digged  her  noiseless  way  so  persever- 
ingly  through  that  rugged  Paraguay  mine.  How 
she  Dobrizhoffered  it  all  out,  it  puzzles  my  slender 
Latinity  to  conjecture.  Why  do  you  seem  to  sanc- 
tion Landor's  unfeeling  allegorizing  away  of  honest 
Quixote?  He  may  as  well  say  Strap  is  meant  to 
symbolize  the  Scottish  nation  before  the  Union,  and 
Random  since  that  Act  of  dubious  issue  ;  or  that  Part- 
ridge means  the  Mystical  Man,  and  Lady  Bellaston 
typifies  the  Woman  upon  Many  Waters.  Gebir,  in- 
deed, may  mean  the  state  of  the  hop  markets  last 
month,  for  anything  I  know  to  the  contrary.  That 
all   Spain    overflowed    with    romancical    books    (as 


292  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Madge  Newcastle  calls  them)  was  no  reason  that 
Cervantes  should  not  smile  at  the  matter  of  them ; 
nor  even  a  reason  that,  in  another  mood,  he  might 
not  multiply  them,  deeply  as  he  was  tinctured  with 
the  essence  of  them.  Quixote  is  the  father  of  gentle 
ridicule,  and  at  the  same  time  the  very  depository 
and  treasury  of  chivalry  and  highest  notions.  Marry, 
when  somebody  persuaded  Cervantes  that  he  meant 
only  fun,  and  put  him  upon  writing  that  unfortunate 
Second  Part,  with  the  confederacies  of  that  unworthy 
duke  and  most  contemptible  duchess,  Cervantes 
sacrificed  his  instinct  to  his  understanding. 

We  got  your  little  book  but  last  night,  being  at 
Enfield,  to  which  place  we  came  about  a  month 
since,  and  are  having  quiet  holidays.  Mary  walks 
her  twelve  miles  a  day  some  days,  and  I  my  twenty 
on  others.  'Tis  all  holiday  with  me  now,  you 
know  ;  the  change  works  admirably. 

For  literary  news,  in  my  poor  way,  I  have  a  one- 
act  farce  ^  going  to  be  acted  at  Haymarket ;  but 
when  ?  is  the  question.  'T  is  an  extravaganza,  and 
like  enough  to  follow  "Mr.  H."  "The  London 
Magazine  "  has  shifted  its  publishers  once  more,  and 
I  shall  shift  myself  out  of  it.  It  is  fallen.  My 
ambition  is  not  at  present  higher  than  to  write  non- 
sense for  the  playhouses,  to  eke  out  a  something 
contracted  income.  Tempus  erat.  There  was  a 
time,  my  dear  Cornwallis,  when  the  muse,  etc.  But 
I  am  now  in  Mac  Flecknoe's  predicament,  — 

"  Promised  a  play,  and  dwindled  to  a  farce." 

^  Probably  "  The  Pawnbroker's  Daughter,"  which  happily 
was  not  destined  to  be  performed.  —  Ainger. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  293 

Coleridge  is  better  (was,  at  least,  a  few  weeks 
since)  than  he  has  been  for  years.  His  accomplish- 
ing his  book  at  last  has  been  a  source  of  vigor  to 
him.  We  are  on  a  half  visit  to  his  friend  AUsop,  at 
a  Mrs.  Leishman's,  Enfield,  but  expect  to  be  at 
Colebrooke  Cottage  in  a  week  or  so,  where,  or 
anywhere,  I  shall  be  always  most  happy  to  receive 
tidings  from  you.  G.  Dyer  is  in  the  height  of  an 
uxorious  paradise.  His  honeymoon  will  not  wane 
till  he  wax  cold.  Never  was  a  more  happy  pair, 
since  Acme  and  Septimius,  and  longer.  Farewell, 
with  many  thanks,  dear  S.  Our  loves  to  all  round 
your  Wrekin. 

Your  old  friend, 

C.  Lamb. 

XCI. 

TO  BERNARD    BARTON. 

March  20,  1826. 
Dear  B.  B.,  —  You  may  know  my  letters  by  the 
paper  and  the  folding.  For  the  former,  I  live  on 
scraps  obtained  in  charity  from  an  old  friend,  whose 
stationery  is  a  permanent  perquisite ;  for  folding,  I 
shall  do  it  neatly  when  I  learn  to  tie  my  neckcloths. 
I  surprise  most  of  my  friends  by  writing  to  them  on 
ruled  paper,  as  if  I  had  not  got  past  pothooks  and 
hangers.  Sealing-wax  I  have  none  on  my  establish- 
ment ;  wafers  of  the  coarsest  bran  supply  its  place. 
When  my  epistles  come  to  be  weighed  with  Pliny's, 
however  superior  to  the  Roman  in  delicate  irony, 
judicious  reflections,   etc.,   his  gilt  post  will  bribe 


294  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

over  the  judges  to  him.  All  the  time  I  was  at  the 
E.  I.  H.  I  never  mended  a  pen ;  I  now  cut  'em  to 
the  stumps,  marring  rather  than  mending  the  primi- 
tive goose-quill,  I  cannot  bear  to  pay  for  articles  I 
used  to  get  for  nothing.  When  Adam  laid  out  his 
first  penny  upon  nonpareils  at  some  stall  in  Meso- 
potamos,  I  think  it  went  hard  with  him,  reflecting 
upon  his  old  goodly  orchard,  where  he  had  so  many 
for  nothing.  When  I  write  to  a  great  man  at  the 
court  end,  he  opens  with  surprise  upon  a  naked 
note,  such  as  Whitechapel  people  interchange,  with 
no  sweet  degrees  of  envelope.  I  never  enclosed 
one  bit  of  paper  in  another,  nor  understood  the 
rationale  of  it.  Once  only  I  sealed  with  borrowed 
wax,  to  set  Walter  Scott  a-wondering,  signed  with 
the  imperial  quartered  arms  of  England,  which  my 
friend  Field  bears  in  compliment  to  his  descent,  in 
the  female  line,  from  Oliver  Cromwell.  It  must 
have  set  his  antiquarian  curiosity  upon  watering. 
To  your  questions  upon  the  currency,  I  refer  you  to 
Mr.  Robinson's  last  speech,  where,  if  you  can  find  a 
solution,  I  cannot.  I  think  this,  though,  —  the  best 
ministry  we  ever  stumbled  upon,  —  gin  reduced  four 
shillings  in  the  gallon,  wine  two  shillings  in  the 
quart !  This  comes  home  to  men's  minds  and 
bosoms.  My  tirade  against  visitors  was  not  meant 
particular/}'  at  you  or  Anne  Knight.  I  scarce  know 
what  I  meant,  for  I  do  not  just  now  feel  the  griev- 
ance. I  wanted  to  make  an  article.  So  in  another 
thing  I  talked  of  somebody's  insipid  wife  without  a 
correspondent  object  in  my  head  ;  and  a  good  lady, 
a  friend's  wife,  whom  I  really  love  (don't  startle,  I 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  295 

mean  in  a  licit  way),  has  looked  shyly  on  me  ever 
since.  The  blunders  of  personal  application  are 
ludicrous.  I  send  out  a  character  every  now  and 
then  on  purpose  to  exercise  the  ingenuity  of  my 
friends.  "  Popular  Fallacies  "  will  go  on  ;  that  word 
"  concluded  "  is  an  erratum,  I  suppose,  for  "  con- 
tinued." I  do  not  know  how  it  got  stuiTed  in  there.  A 
little  thing  without  name  will  also  be  printed  on  the 
Religion  of  the  Actors  ;  but  it  is  out  of  your  way,  so 
I  recommend  you,  with  true  author's  hypocrisy,  to 
skip  it.  We  are  about  to  sit  down  to  roast  beef,  at 
which  we  could  wish  A.  K.,  B.  B.,  and  B;  B.'s 
pleasant  daughter  to  be  humble  partakers.  So  much 
for  my  hint  at  visitors,  which  was  scarcely  calculated 
for  droppers-in  from  Woodbridge  ;  the  sky  does  not 
drop  such  larks  every  day.  My  very  kindest  wishes 
to  you  all  three,  with  my  sister's  best  love. 

C.  Lamb. 


XCII. 

TO   J.  B.    DIBDIN. 

June,  1826. 

Dear  D.,  —  My  first  impulse  upon  seeing  your 
letter  was  pleasure  at  seeing  your  old  neat  hand, 
nine  parts  gentlemanly,  with  a  modest  dash  of  the 
clerical ;  my  second,  a  thought  natural  enough  this 
hot  weather  :  Am  I  to  answer  all  this?  Why,  't  is  as 
long  as  those  to  the  Ephesians  and  Galatians  put 
together  :  I  have  counted  the  words,  for  curiosity. 
...  I  never  knew  an  enemy  to  puns  who  was  not 
an   ill-natured    man.     Your  fair  critic  in  the  coach 


296  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

reminds  me  of  a  Scotchman  who  assured  me  he  did 
not  see  much  in  Shakspeare.  I  repHed,  I  daresay  not. 
He  felt  the  equiv'oke,  looked  awkward  and  reddish, 
but  soon  returned  to  the  attack  by  saying  that  he 
thought  Burns  was  as  good  as  Shakspeare.  I  said 
that  I  had  no  doubt  he  was,  —  to  a  Scotchman.  We 
exchanged  no  more  words  that  day.  .  .  .  Let  me 
hear  that  you  have  clambered  up  to  Lover's  Seat ;  it 
is  as  fine  in  that  neighborhood  as  Juan  Fernandez,  — 
as  lonely,  too,  when  the  fishing-boats  are  not  out ;  I 
have  sat  for  hours  staring  upon  a  shipless  sea.  The 
salt  sea  is  never  as  grand  as  when  it  is  left  to  itself. 
One  cock-boat  spoils  it ;  a  seamew  or  two  improves 
it.  And  go  to  the  little  church,  which  is  a  very  Prot- 
estant Loretto,  and  seems  dropped  by  some  angel 
for  the  use  of  a  hermit  who  was  at  once  parishioner 
and  a  whole  parish.  It  is  not  too  big.  Go  in  the  night, 
bring  it  away  in  your  portmanteau,  and  I  will  plant 
it  in  my  garden.  It  must  have  been  erected,  in  the 
very  infancy  of  British  Christianity,  for  the  two  or 
three  first  converts,  yet  with  all  the  appurtenances 
of  a  church  of  the  first  magnitude,  —  its  pulpit,  its 
pews,  its  baptismal  font ;  a  cathedral  in  a  nutshell. 
The  minister  that  divides  the  Word  there  must  give 
lumping  penny\vorths.  It  is  built  to  the  text  of 
"  two  or  three  assembled  in  my  name."  It  reminds 
me  of  the  grain  of  mustard-seed.  If  the  glebe-land 
is  proportionate,  it  may  yield  two  potatoes.  Tithes 
out  of  it  could  be  no  more  split  than  a  hair.  Its 
First  fruits  must  be  its  Last,  for  't  would  never  pro- 
duce a  couple.  It  is  truly  the  strait  and  narrow  way, 
and  few  there  be  (of  London  visitants)  that  find  it. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  297 

The  still  small  voice  is  surely  to  be  found  there,  if 
anywhere.  A  sounding-board  is  merely  there  for 
ceremony.  It  is  secure  from  earthquakes,  not  more 
from  sanctity  than  size,  for  't  would  feel  a  mountain 
thrown  upon  it  no  more  than  a  taper-worm  would. 
Go  and  see,  but  not  without  your  spectacles. 


XCIII. 

TO  HENRY  CRABB   ROBINSON. 

January  20,  1827. 

Dear  Robinson,  —  I  called  upon  you  this  morn- 
ing, and  found  that  you  had  gone  to  visit  a  dying 
friend.  I  had  been"  upon  a  like  errand.  Poor 
Norris  ^  has  been  lying  dying  for  now  almost  a  week, 
—  such  is  the  penalty  we  pay  for  having  enjoyed  a 
strong  constitution  !  Whether  he  knew  me  or  not, 
I  know  not,  or  whether  he  saw  me  through  his  poor 
glazed  eyes ;  but  the  group  I  saw  about  him  I  shall 
not  forget.  Upon  the  bed,  or  about  it,  were  assem- 
bled his  wife  and  two  daughters,  and  poor  deaf 
Richard,  his  son,  looking  doubly  stupefied.  There 
they  were,  and  seemed  to  have  been  sitting  all  the 
week.  I  could  only  reach  out  a  hand  to  Mrs. 
Norris.  Speaking  was  impossible  in  that  mute 
chamber.  By  this  time  I  hope  it  is  all  over  with 
him.  In  him  I  have  a  loss  the  world  cannot  make 
up.  He  was  my  friend  and  my  father's  friend  all 
the  life  I  can  remember.  I  seem  to  have  made 
foolish  friendships  ever    since.     Those    are  friend- 

1  Randal  Norris,  sub-treasurer  of  the  Inner  Temple,  an 
early  friend  of  the  Lambs. 


298  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

ships  which  outlive  a  second  generation.  Old  as  I 
am  waxing,  in  his  eyes  1  was  still  the  child  he  first 
knew  me.  To  the  last  he  called  me  Charley.  I 
have  none  to  call  me  Charley  now.  He  was  the  last 
link  that  bound  me  to  the  Temple.  You  are  but  of 
yesterday.  In  him  seem  to  have  died  the  old  plain- 
ness of  manners  and  singleness  of  heart.  Letters  he 
knew  nothing  of,  nor  did  his  reading  extend  beyond 
the  pages  of  the  "Gentleman's  Magazine."  Yet 
there  was  a  pride  of  literature  about  him  from  being 
amongst  books  (he  was  librarian),  and  from  some 
scraps  of  doubtful  Latin  which  he  had  picked  up  in 
his  office  of  entering  students,  that  gave  him  very 
diverting  airs  of  pedantry.  Can  I  forget  the  eru- 
dite look  with  which,  when  he  had  been  in  vain 
trying  to  make  out  a  black-letter  text  of  Chaucer  in 
the  Temple  Library,  he  laid  it  down  and  told  me  that 
"  in  those  old  books,  Charley,  there  is  sometimes 
a  deal  of  very  indifferent  spelling ;  "  and  seemed  to 
console  himself  in  the  reflection  !  His  jokes  —  for 
he  had  his  jokes  —  are  now  ended  ;  but  they  were  old 
trusty  perennials,  staples  that  pleased  after  decies 
i-^petita,  and  were  always  as  good  as  new.  One 
song  he  had,  which  was  reserved  for  the  night  of 
Christmas  Day,  which  we  always  spent  in  the  Temple. 
It  was  an  old  thing,  and  spoke  of  the  flat-bottoms 
of  our  foes  and  the  possibility  of  their  coming  over 
in  darkness,  and  alluded  to  threats  of  an  invasion 
many  years  blown  over;  and  when  he  came  to 
the  part  — 

"  We  '11  still  make  'em  run,  and  we  '11  still  make  'em  sweat, 
In  spite  of  the  devil  and  '  Brussels  Gazette,'  "  — 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  299 

his  eyes  would  sparkle  as  with  the  freshness  of  an 
impending  event.  And  what  is  the  "  Brussels 
Gazette  "  now?  I  cry  while  I  enumerate  these 
trifles.  "  How  shall  we  tell  them  in  a  stranger's 
ear?  "  His  poor  good  girls  will  now  have  to  receive 
their  afflicted  mother  in  an  inaccessible  hovel  in  an 
obscure  village  in  Herts,  where  they  have  been  long 
struggling  to  make  a  school  without  effect ;  and 
poor  deaf  Richard  —  and  the  more  helpless  for 
being  so  —  is  thrown  on  the  wide  world. 

My  first  motive  in  writing,  and,  indeed,  in  calling 
on  you,  was  to  ask  if  you  were  enough  acquainted 
with  any  of  the  Benchers  to  lay  a  plain  statement 
before  them  of  the  circumstances  of  the  family.  I 
almost  fear  not,  for  you  are  of  another  hall.  But  if 
you  can  oblige  me  and  my  poor  friend,  who  is  now 
insensible  to  any  favors,  pray  exert  yourself.  You 
cannot  say  too  much  good  of  poor  Norris  and  his 
poor  wife.  Yours  ever, 

Charles  Lamb. 

XCIV. 

TO  PETER  GEORGE  PATMORE. 

LONDRES,  _/////>  19//;,  1827. 

Dear  P.,  —  I  am  so  poorly.  I  have  been  to  a 
funeral,  where  I  made  a  pun,  to  the  consternation  of 
the  rest  of  the  mourners.  And  we  had  wine.  I 
can't  describe  to  you  the  howl  which  the  widow  set 
up  at  proper  intervals.  Dash  ^  could  ;  for  it  was  not 
unlike  what  he  makes. 

1  A  dog  given  to  Lamb  by  Thomas  Hood.  See  letter  to 
Patm•^re  dated  September,   1S27. 


300  LETTERS  OE  CHARLES  LAMB. 

The  letter  I  sent  you  was  one  directed  to  the 
care  of  Edward  White,  India  House,  for  Mrs.  Haz- 
litt.  Which  Mrs.  H.  I  don't  yet  know ;  but  AUsop 
has  taken  it  to  France  on  speculation.  Really  it 
is  embarrassing.  There  is  Mrs.  "present  H.,  Mrs. 
late  H.,  and  Mrs.  John  H. ;  and  to  which  of  the 
three  Mrs.  Wigginses  it  appertains,  I  know  not.  I 
wanted  to  open  it,  but  'tis  transportation. 

I  am  sorry  you  are  plagued  about  your  book.  I 
would  strongly  recommend  you  to  take  for  one  story 
Massinger's  "Old  Law."  It  is  exquisite.  I  can 
think  of  no  other. 

Dash  is  frightful  this  morning.  He  whines  and 
stands  up  on  his  hind  legs.  He  misses  Becky,  who 
is  gone  to  town.  I  took  him  to  Barnet  the  other 
day,  and  he  could  n't  eat  his  vittles  after  it.  Pray 
God  his  intellectuals  be  not  slipping. 

Mary  is  gone  out  for  some  soles.  I  suppose  't  is 
no  use  to  ask  you  to  come  and  partake  of  'em ; 
else  there  is  a  steam  vessel. 

I  am  doing  a  tragi-comedy  in  two  acts,  and  have 
got  on  tolerably  ;  but  it  will  be  refused,  or  worse.  I 
never  had  luck  with  anything  my  name  was  put  to. 

Oh,  I  am  so  poorly  !  I  waked  it  at  my  cousin's 
the  bookbinder,  who  is  now  with  God ;  or  if  he  is 
not,  't  is  no  fault  of  mine. 

We  hope  the  Frank  wines  do  not  disagree  with 
Mrs.  Patmore.     By  the  way,  I  like  her. 

Did  you  ever  taste  frogs?  Get  them  if  you  can. 
They  are  like  little  Lilliput  rabbits,  only  a  thought 
nicer. 

How  sick  I  am  !  —  not  of  the  world,  but  of  the 
Widow  Shrub.     She  's  sworn  under  ;^6,ooo  ;  but  I 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  301 

think  she  perjured  herself.  She  howls  in  E  la,  and 
I  comfort  her  in  B  flat.     You  understand  music  ? 

If  you  haven't  got  Massinger,  you  have  nothing  to 
do  but  go  to  the  first  Bibliotheque  you  can  light 
upon  at  Boulogne,  and  ask  for  it  (Gifford's  edition)  ; 
and  if  they  have  n't  got  it,  you  can  have  "  Athalie," 
par  ^Monsieur  Racine,  and  make  the  best  of  it.  But 
that  "Old  Law"  is  delicious. 

"  No  shrimps  !  "  (that 's  in  answer  to  Mary's  ques- 
tion about  how  the  soles  are  to  be  done.) 

I  am  uncertain  where  this  wandering  letter  may 
reach  you.  What  you  mean  by  Poste  Restante,  God 
knows.  Do  you  mean  I  must  pay  the  postage  ?  So 
I  do,  —  to  Dover. 

We  had  a  merry  passage  with  the  widow  at  the 
Commons.  She  was  howling,  —  part  howling,  and 
part  giving  directions  to  the  proctor,  —  when  crash  ! 
down  went  my  sister  through  a  crazy  chair,  and 
made  the  clerks  grin,  and  I  grinned,  and  the  widow 
tittered,  and  then  I  knew  that  she  was  not  inconso- 
lable.    Mary  was  more  frightened  than  hurt. 

She  'd  make  a  good  match  for  anybody  (by  she, 
I  mean  the  widow). 

"  If  he  bring  but  a  relict  away, 
He  is  happy,  nor  heard  to  complain." 

She.nstone. 

Procter  has  got  a  wen  growing  out  at  the  nape  of 
his  neck,  which  his  wife  wants  him  to  have  cut  off; 
but  I  think  it  rather  an  agreeable  excrescence, — 
like  his  poetry,  redundant.  Hone  has  hanged  him- 
self for  debt.     Godwin  was    taken  up  for   picking 


302  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

pockets.  Moxon  has  fallen  in  love  with  Emma,  our 
nut-brown  maid.  Becky  takes  to  bad  courses.  Her 
father  was  blown  up  in  a  steam  machine.  The 
coroner  found  it  "  insanity."  I  should  not  like  him 
to  sit  on  my  letter. 

Do  you  observe  my  direction?  Is  it  Galhc, 
classical?  Do  try  and  get  some  frogs.  You  must 
ask  for  " grenouilles  "  (green  eels).  They  don't 
understand  "frogs/'  though  'tis  a  common  phrase 
with  us. 

If  you  go  through  BuUoign  (Boulogne),  inquire 
if  Old  Godfrey  is  living,  and  how  he  got  home  from 
the  Crusades.     He  must  be  a  very  old  man. 


xcv. 

TO   BERNARD   BARTON. 

August  10,  1827. 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  I  have  not  been  able  to  answer 
you,  for  we  have  had  and  are  having  (I  just  snatch 
a  moment)  our  poor  quiet  retreat,  to  which  we  fled 
from  society,  full  of  company,  —  some  staying  with 
us ;  and  this  moment  as  I  write,  almost,  a  heavy  im- 
portation of  two  old  ladies  has  come  in.  Whither 
can  I  take  wing  from  the  oppression  of  human 
faces?  Would  I  were  in  a  wilderness  of  apes,  toss- 
ing cocoa-nuts  about,  grinning  and  grinned  at  ! 

Mitford  was  hoaxing  you  surely  about  my  engrav- 
ing ;   't  is  a  little  sixpenny  thing,^  too  like  by  half,  in 

1  An  etching  of  Lamb,  by  Brooke  Pulham,  which  is  said 
to  be  the  most  characteristic  likeness  of  him  extant. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  303 

which  the  draughtsman  has  done  his  best  to  avoid 
flattery.     There  have  been  two  editions  of  it,  which 
I  think  are  all  gone,  as  they  have  vanished  from  the 
window  where    they  hung,  —  a   print-shop,  corner 
of  Great  and    Little  Queen  Streets,  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields,  —  where  any  London  friend  of  yours  may 
inquire  for  it ;  for  I  am  (though  you  zoo  n't  under- 
stand it)   at  Enfield  Chase.     We    have  been    here 
near   three    months,    and    shall   stay  two    more,  if 
people  will  let  us  alone  ;  but  they  persecute  us  from 
village    to    village.       So    don't  direct    to   Islington 
again  till  further  notice.     I  am  trying  my  hand  at  a 
drama,  in  two  acts,  founded    on    Crabbe's  "  Con- 
fidant," mutatis  mutandis.     You  like  the  Odyssey  : 
did  you    ever   read  my  "  Adventures  of  Ulysses," 
founded  on  Chapman's  old  translation  of  it?     For 
children    or   men.      Chapman   is    divine,    and    my 
abridgment  has  not  quite  emptied  him  of  his  divin- 
ity.    When  you   come   to    town    I  '11  show  it  you. 
You  have  well  described  your  old-fashioned  grand 
paternal  hall.     Is  it  not  odd  that  every  one's  ear- 
liest recollections  are  of  some  such  place?     I  had 
my  Blakesware    [Blakesmoor  in  the   "London"]. 
Nothing  fills  a  child's  mind  like  a  large  old  mansion ; 
better  if  un  —  or  partially  —  occupied,  —  peopled 
with  the  spirits  of  deceased  members  of  the  county 
and  justices  of  the  quorum.     Would  I  were  buried 
in  the  peopled  solitudes  of  one,  with  my  feelings  at 
seven  years  old  !     Those  marble  busts  of  the  em- 
perors, they  seemed  as  if  they  were  to  stand  for- 
ever, as  they  had    stood  from  the   living    days    of 
Rome,  in  that  old  marble  hall,  and  I  too  partake  of 


304  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

their  permanency.  Eternity  was,  while  I  thought 
not  of  Time.  But  he  thought  of  me,  and  they  are 
toppled  down,  and  corn  covers  the  spot  of  the  noble 
old  dwelling  and  its  princely  gardens.  I  feel  like  a 
grasshopper  that,  chirping  about  the  grounds,  es- 
caped the  scythe  only  by  my  littleness.  Even  now 
he  is  whetting  one  of  his  smallest  razors  to  clean 
wipe  me  out,  perhaps.     Well ! 


XCVI. 

TO  THOMAS   HOOD. 

September  1 8,  1827. 

Dear  Hood,  —  If  I  have  anything  in  my  head,  I 
will  send  it  to  Mr.  Watts.  Strictly  speaking,  he 
should  have  all  my  album-verses ;  but  a  very  inti- 
mate friend  importuned  me  for  the  trifles,  and  I  be- 
lieve I  forgot  Mr.  Watts,  or  lost  sight  at  the  time  of 
his  similar  "  Souvenir."  Jamieson  conveyed  the 
farce  from  me  to  Mrs.  C.  Kemble ;  he  will  not  be 
in  town  before  the  27th. 

Give  our  kind  loves  to  all  at  Highgate,  and  tell 
them  that  we  have  finally  torn  ourselves  outright 
away  from  Colebrooke,  where  I  had  no  health,  and 
are  about  to  domiciliate  for  good  at  Enfield,  where 
I  have  experienced  good, 

"  Lord,  what  good  hours  do  we  keep ! 
How  quietly  we  sleep  ! "  ^ 

See  the  rest  in  the  "  Compleat  Angler." 

1  By  Charles  Cotton. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  305 

We  have  got  our  books  into  our  new  house.  I 
am  a  dray-horse  if  I  was  not  ashamed  of  the  in- 
digested, dirty  lumber,  as  I  toppled  'em  out  of  the 
cart,  and  blessed  Becky  that  came  with  'em  for  her 
having  an  unstuffed  brain  with  such  rubbish.  We 
shall  get  in  by  Michael's  Mass.  'T  was  with  some 
pain  we  were  evulsed  from  Colebrooke. 

You  may  find  some  of  our  flesh  sticking  to  the 
doorposts.  To  change  habitations  is  to  die  to 
them ;  and  in  my  time  I  have  died  seven  deaths. 
But  I  don't  know  whether  every  such  change  does 
not  bring  with  it  a  rejuvenescence.  'T  is  an  enter- 
prise, and  shoves  back  the  sense  of  death's  approxi- 
mating, which,  though  not  terrible  to  me,  is  at  all 
times  particularly  distasteful.  My  house-deaths 
have  generally  been  periodical,  recurring  after  seven 
years ;  but  this  last  is  premature  by  half  that  time. 
Cut  off  in  the  flower  of  Colebrooke  !  The  Middle- 
tonian  stream  and  all  its  echoes  mourn.  Even 
minnows  dwindle.     A  parvis  fiiint  minimi  I 

I  fear  to  invite  Mrs.  Hood  to  our  new  mansion, 
lest  she  should  envy  it,  and  hate  us.  But  when  we 
are  fairly  in,  I  hope  she  will  come  and  try  it.  I 
heard  she  and  you  were  made  uncomfortable  by 
some  unworthy-to-be-cared-for  attacks,  and  have 
tried  to  set  up  a  feeble  counteraction  through  the 
"  Table  Book  "  of  last  Saturday,  Has  it  not  reached 
you,  that  you  are  silent  about  it?  Our  new  domi- 
cile is  no  manor-house,  but  new,  and  externally  not 
inviting,  but  furnished  within  with  every  conve- 
nience, —  capital  new  locks  to  every  door,  capital 
grates  in  every  room,  with  nothing  to  pay  for  in- 
20 


3o6  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

coming,  and   the  rent  ^lo  less  than  the  Ishngton 
one. 

It  was  built,  a  few  years  since,  at  ;^i,too  ex- 
pense, they  tell  me,  and  I  perfectly  believe  it. 
And  I  get  it  for  ^35,  exclusive  of  moderate  taxes. 
We  think  ourselves  most  lucky. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  abandon  Regent  Street 
and  West  End  perambulations  (monastic  and  terrible 
thought!),  but  occasionally  to  breathe  the  fresher 
air  of  the  metropolis.  We  shall  put  up  a  bedroom 
or  two  (all  we  want)  for  occasional  ex- rustication, 
where  we  shall  visit,  —  not  be  visited.  Plays,  too, 
we  '11  see,  —  perhaps  our  own  ;  Urbani  Sylvani  and 
Sylvan  Urbanuses  in  turns ;  courtiers  for  a  sport, 
then  philosophers ;  old,  homely  tell-truths  and 
learn-truths  in  the  virtuous  shades  of  Enfield,  liars 
again  and  mocking  gibers  in  the  coffee-houses  and 
resorts  of  London.  What  can  a  mortal  desire  more 
for  his  bi-parted  nature? 

Oh,  the  curds-and-cream  you  shall  eat  with  us 
here  ! 

Oh,  the  turtle-soup  and  lobster-salads  we  shall 
devour  with  you  there  ! 

Oh,  the  old  books  we  shall  peruse  here  ! 

Oh,  the  new  nonsense  we  shall  trifle  over  there  ! 

Oh,  Sir  T.  Browne,  here  ! 

Oh,  Mr.  Hood  and  Mr.  Jerdan,  there  ! 
Thine, 
C.  (uRBANUs)  L.  (SYLVANUs)  —  (Elia  ambo) . 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  307 

XCVII. 

TO   p.   G.    PATMORE. 

September,  1827. 

Dear  P.,  — Excuse  my  anxiety,  but  how  is  Dash? 
I  should  have  asked  if  Mrs.  Patmore  kept  her  rules 
and  was  improving;  but  Dash  came  uppermost. 
The  order  of  our  thoughts  should  be  the  order  of 
our  writing.  Goes  he  muzzled,  or  aperto  ore  ?  Are 
his  intellects  sound,  or  does  he  wander  a  little  in 
his  conversation.  You  cannot  be  too  careful  to 
watch  the  first  symptoms  of  incoherence.  The 
first  illogical  snarl  he  makes,  to  St.  Luke's  with  him  ! 
All  the  dogs  here  are  going  mad,  if  you  believe  the 
overseers ;  but  I  protest  they  seem  to  me  very 
rational  and  collected.  But  nothing  is  so  deceitful 
as  mad  people,  to  those  who  are  not  used  to  them. 
Try  him  with  hot  water ;  if  he  won't  lick  it  up,  it 's 
a  sign  he  does  not  like  it.  Does  his  tail  wag 
horizontally  or  perpendicularly?  That  has  decided 
the  fate  of  many  dogs  in  Enfield.  Is  his  general 
deportment  cheerful?  I  mean  when  he  is  pleased, 
for  otherwise  there  is  no  judging.  You  can't  be 
too  careful.  Has  he  bit  any  of  the  children  yet? 
If  he  has,  have  them  shot,  and  keep  him  for  curi- 
osity, to  see  if  it  was  the  hydrophobia.  They  say 
all  our  army  in  India  had  it  at  one  time  ;  but  that 
was  in  Hyder-.^y^  time.  Do  you  get  paunch  for 
him?  Take  care  the  sheep  was  sane.  You  might 
pull  his  teeth  out  (if  he  would  let  you),  and  then  you 
need  not  mind  if  he  were  as  mad   as  a  Bedlamite. 


3o8  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

It  would  be  rather  fun  to  see  his  odd  ways.  It 
might  amuse  Mrs.  P.  and  the  children.  They  'd 
have  more  sense  than  he.  He  'd  be  like  a  fool 
kept  in  a  family,  to  keep  the  household  in  good 
humor  with  their  own  understanding.  You  might 
teach  him  the  mad  dance,  set  to  the  mad  howl. 
Madge  Owlet  would  be  nothing  to  him.  "  My,  how 
he  capers  !  "  (///  the  ma?-gin  is  luriiten  "  One  of 
the  children  speaks  thisi")  .  .  .  What  I  scratch  out 
is  a  German  quotation,  from  Lessing,  on  the  bite  of 
rabid  animals ;  but  I  remember  you  don't  read 
German.  But  Mrs.  P.  may,  so  I  wish  I  had  let  it 
stand.  The  meaning  in  English  is :  "  Avoid  to 
approach  an  animal  suspected  of  madness,  as  you 
would  avoid  fire  or  a  precipice,"  —  which  I  think  is 
a  sensible  observation.  The  Germans  are  certainly 
profounder  than  we.  If  the  slightest  suspicion 
arises  in  your  breast  that  all  is  not  right  with  him, 
muzzle  him  and  lead  him  in  a  string  (common 
packthread  will  do ;  he  don't  care  for  twist)  to 
Mr.  Hood's,  his  quondam  master,  and  he  '11  take 
him  in  at  any  time.  You  may  mention  your  sus- 
picion, or  not,  as  you  like,  or  as  you  think  it  may 
wound,  or  not,  Mr.  H.'s  feelings.  Hood,  I  know, 
will  wink  at  a  few  follies  in  Dash,  in  consideration 
of  his  former  sense.  Besides,  Hood  is  deaf,  and  if 
you  hinted  anything,  ten  to  one  he  would  not  hear 
you.  Besides,  you  will  have  discharged  your  con- 
science, and  laid  the  child  at  the  right  door,  as 
they  say. 

We   are   dawdling  our  time  away  very  idly  and 
pleasandy  at    a    Mrs.    Leishman's,  Chase,  Enfield, 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  309 

where,  if  you  come  a-hunting,  we  can  give  you  cold 
meat  and  a  tankard.  Her  husband  is  a  tailor;  but 
that,  you  know,  does  not  make  her  one.  I  know  a 
jailor  (which  rhymes),  but  his  wife  was  a  fine  lady. 
Let  us  hear  from  you  respecting  Mrs.  P.'s  regi- 
men.    I  send  my  love  in  a to  Dash. 

C.  Lamb. 


XCVIIL 

TO   BERNARD    BARTON. 

October   II,   1828 

A  SPLENDID  edition  of  Bunyan's  Pilgrim  !  ^  ^Vhy, 
the  thought  is  enough  to  turn  one's  moral  stomach. 
His  cockle-hat  and  staff  transformed  to  a  smart 
cocked  beaver  and  a  jemmy  cane  ;  his  amice  gray 
to  the  last  Regent  Street  cut ;  and  his  painful 
palmer's  pace  to  the  modern  swagger  !  Stop  thy 
friend's  sacrilegious  hand.  Nothing  can  be  done 
for  B.  but  to  reprint  the  old  cuts  in  as  homely  but 
good  a  style  as  possible,  —  the  Vanity  Fair  and  the 
Pilgrims  there ;  the  silly-soothness  in  his  setting- 
out  countenance ;  the  Christian  idiocy  (in  a  good 
sense)  of  his  admiration  of  the  shepherds  on  the 
Delectable  mountains  ;  the  lions  so  truly  allegorical, 
and  remote  from  any  similitude  to  Pidcock's ;  the 
great  head  (the  author's),  capacious  of  dreams  and 
similitudes,  dreaming  in  the  dungeon.  Perhaps  you 
don't  know  ray  edition,  what  I  had  when  a  child. 

1  An  edition  de  luxe,  illustrated  liy  John  Martin,  and 
with  an  Introduction  by  Southey.  See  Macaulay's  review 
of  it. 


3IO  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

If  you  do,  can  you  bear  new  designs  from  Martin, 
enamelled  into  copper  or  silver  plate  by  Heath, 
accompanied  with  verses  from  Mrs.  Hemans's  pen? 
Oh,  how  unlike  his  own  ! 

"  Wouldst  thou  divert  thyself  from  melancholy? 
Wouldst  thou  be  pleasant,  yet  be  far  from  folly  ? 
Wouldst  thou  read  riddles  and  their  explanation  ? 
Or  else  be  drowned  in  thy  contemplation? 
Dost  thou  love  picking  meat  ?  or  wouldst  thou  see 
A  man  i'  the  clouds,  and  hear  him  speak  to  thee  ? 
Wouldst  thou  be  in  a  dream,  and  yet  not  sleep? 
Or  wouldst  thou  in  a  moment  laugh  and  weep  ? 
Or  wouldst  thou  lose  thyself,  and  catch  no  harm, 
And  find  thyself  again  without  a  charm? 
Wouldst  read  thyself,  and  read  thou  knowest  not  what, 
And  yet  know  whether  thou  art  blest  or  not 
By  reading  the  same  lines  ?     Oh,  then  come  hither, 
And  lay  my  book,  thy  head,  and  heart  together." 

Show  me  any  such  poetry  in  any  one  of  the  fifteen 
forthcoming  combinations  of  show  and  emptiness 
'yclept  "  Annuals."  So  there 's  verses  for  thy 
verses;  and  now  let  me  tell  you  that  the  sight  of 
your  hand  gladdened  me.  I  have  been  daily  trying 
to  write  to  you,  but  [have  been]  paralyzed.  You 
have  spurred  me  on  this  tiny  effort,  and  at  intervals 
I  hope  to  hear  from  and  talk  to  you.  But  my  spirits 
have  been  in  an  oppressed  way  for  a  long  time,  and 
they  are  things  which  must  be  to  you  of  faith,  for 
who  can  explain  depression?  Yes,  I  am  hooked 
into  the  "Gem,"  but  only  for  some  lines  written  on 
a  dead  infant  of  the  editor's,^  which  being,  as  it 
were,  his  property,  I  could  not  refuse  their  ap- 
pearing ;  but  I  hate  the  paper,  the  type,  the  gloss, 

1  Hood's. 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  311 

the  dandy  plates,  the  names  of  contributors  poked 
up  mto  your  eyes  in  first  page,  and  whisked  through 
all  the  covers  of  magazines,  the  barefaced  sort  of 
emulation,  the  immodest  candidateship.  Brought 
into  so  httle  space,  —  in  those  old  "  Londons,"  a 
signature  was  lost  in  the  wood  of  matter,  the  paper 
coarse  (till  latterly,  which  spoiled  them),  — in  short, 
I  detest  to  appear  in  an  Annual.  What  a  fertile 
genius  (and  a  quiet  good  soul  withal)  is  Hood  ! 
He  has  fifty  things  in  hand,  —  farces  to  supply  the 
Adelphi  for  the  season  ;  a  comedy  for  one  of  the 
great  theatres,  just  ready ;  a  whole  entertainment 
by  himself  for  Mathews  and  Yates  to  figure  in  ;  a 
meditated  Comic  Annual  for  next  year,  to  be  nearly 
done  by  himself.     You  'd  like  him  very  much. 

Wordsworth,  I  see,  has  a  good  many  pieces  an- 
nounced in  one  of  'em,  not  our  "  Gem."  W.  Scott 
has  distributed  himself  like  a  bribe  haunch  among 
'em.  Of  all  the  poets,  Gary  ^  has  had  the  good 
sense  to  keep  quite  clear  of  'em,  with  clergy-gentle- 
manly right  notions.  Don't  think  I  set  up  for  being 
proud  on  this  point ;  I  hke  a  bit  of  flattery,  tickling 
my  vanity,  as  well  as  any  one.  But  these  pompous 
masquerades  without  masks  (naked  names  or  faces) 
I  hate.  So  there  's  a  bit  of  my  mind.  Besides, 
they  infallibly  cheat  you,  —  I  mean  the  booksellers. 
If  I  get  but  a  copy,  I  only  expect  it  from  Hood's 
being  my  friend.  Goleridge  has  lately  been  here. 
He  too  is  deep  among  the  prophets,  the  year-ser- 
vers, —  the  mob  of  gentleman  annuals.  But  they  '11 
cheat  him,  I  know.  And  now,  dear  B.  B.,  the  sun 
1  The  translator  of  Dante. 


312  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

shining  out  merrily,  and  the  dirty  clouds  we  had 
yesterday  having  washed  their  own  faces  clean  with 
their  own  rain,  tempts  me  to  wander  up  Winchmore 
Hill,  or  into  some  of  the  delightful  vicinages  of  En- 
field, which  I  hope  to  show  you  at  some  time  when 
you  can  get  a  few  days  up  to  the  great  town.  Be- 
lieve me,  it  would  give  both  of  us  great  pleasure  to 
show  you  our  pleasant  farms  and  villages. 

We  both  join  in  kindest  loves  to  you  and  yours. 

C.  Lamb  redivivus. 


XCIX. 

TO   PROCTER. 

Jamiary  22,  1829. 

Don't  trouble  yourself  about  the  verses.  Take 
'em  coolly  as  they  come.  Any  day  between  this  and 
midsummer  will  do.  Ten  lines  the  extreme.  There 
is  no  mystery  in  my  incognita.  She  has  often  seen 
you,  though  you  may  not  have  observed  a  silent 
brown  girl,  who  for  the  last  twelve  years  has  ram- 
bled about  our  house  in  her  Christmas  holidays. 
She  is  Italian  by  name  and  extraction.^  Ten  lines 
about  the  blue  sky  of  her  country  will  do,  as  it 's  her 
foible  to  be  proud  of  it.  Item,  I  have  made  her 
a  tolerable  Latinist.  She  is  called  Emma  Isola.  I 
shall,  I  think,  be  in  town  in  a  few  weeks,  when  I 
will  assuredly  see  you.     I  will  put  in  here  loves  to 

^  Emma  Isola,  Lamb's  ward,  daughter  of  one  of  the  Esquire 
Bedells  of  Cambridge  University,  and  granddaughter  of  an 
Italian  refugee.  The  Lambs  had  met  her  during  one  of  their 
Cambridge  visits,  and  finally  adopted  her. 


LETTERS   OF   CHARLES  LAMB.  313 

Mrs.  Procter  and  the  Anti-Capulets  [Montagus], 
because  Mary  tells  me  I  omitted  them  in  my  last. 
I  like  to  see  my  friends  here.  I  have  put  my  law- 
suit into  the  hands  of  an  Enfield  practitioner,  —  a 
plain  man,  who  seems  perfectly  to  understand  it, 
and  gives  me  hopes  of  a  favorable  result. 

Rumor  tells  us  that  Miss  Holcroft  is  married. 
Who  is  Baddams  ?  Have  I  seen  him  at  Montacute's  ? 
I  hear  he  is  a  great  chemist.  I  am  sometimes 
chemical  myself.  A  thought  strikes  me  with  horror. 
Pray  Heaven  he  may  not  have  done  it  for  the  sake 
of  trying  chemical  experiments  upon  her,  —  young 
female  subjects  are  so  scarce  !  An't  you  glad  about 
Burke's  case?  We  may  set  off  the  Scotch  mur- 
ders against  the  Scotch  novels,  —  Hare  the  Great 
Unhanged.-' 

Martin  Burney  is  richly  worth  your  knowing.  He 
is  on  the  top  scale  of  my  friendship  ladder,  on  which 
an  angel  or  two  is  still  climbing,  and  some,  alas  ! 
descending.  I  am  out  of  the  literary  world  at  pres- 
ent. Pray,  is  there  anything  new  from  the  admired 
pen  of  the  author  of  "The  Pleasures  of  Hope"? 
Has  Mrs.  He-mans  (double  masculine)  done  any- 
thing pretty  lately?  Why  sleeps  the  lyre  of  Hervey 
and  of  Alaric  Watts  ?  Is  the  muse  of  L.  E.  L.  silent  ? 
Did  you  see  a  sonnet  of  mine  in  Blackwood's  last?- 
Curious  construction  !  Elaborata  facilitas  /  And 
now  I  '11  tell.  'Twas  written  for  "The  Gem  ;  "  but 
the  editors  declined  it,  on  the  plea  that  it  would 
shock  all  mothers  ;  so  they  published  "  The  Widow  " 

1  Burke  and  Hare,  the  Edinburgh  resurrection-men. 
'2   The  Gypsy's  Malison. 


314  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

instead.  I  am  born  out  of  time.  I  have  no  con- 
jecture about  what  the  present  world  calls  delicacy. 
I  thought  "Rosamund  Gray"  was  a  pretty  modest 
thing.  Hessey  assures  me  that  the  world  would  not 
bear  it.  I  have  lived  to  grow  into  an  indecent  char- 
acter. When  my  sonnet  was  rejected,  I  exclaimed, 
"  Damn  the  age  ;   I  will  write  for  Antiquity  !  " 

Erratu77i  in  sonnet.  Last  line  but  something,  for 
"tender"  read  "tend."  The  Scotch  do  not  know 
our  law  terms,  but  I  find  some  remains  of  honest, 
plain  old  writing  lurking  there  still.  They  were  not 
so  mealy  mouthed  as  to  refuse  my  verses.  Maybe, 
't  is  their  oatmeal. 

Blackwood  sent  me  ;^20  for  the  drama.  Some- 
body cheated  me  out  of  it  next  day ;  and  my  new 
pair  of  breeches,  just  sent  home,  cracking  at  first 
putting  on,  I  exclaimed,  in  my  wrath,  "  All  tailors 
are  cheats,  and  all  men  are  tailors."  Then  I  was 
better. 

C.  L. 

C. 

TO   BERNARD   BARTON. 

Enfield  Chase  Side, 
Saturday,  zt^ik  of  July,  A.  D.  1829,  11  A.  M. 

There  !  a  fuller,  plumper,  juicier  date  never 
dropped  from  Idumean  palm.  Am  I  in  the  date- 
ive  case  now?  If  not,  a  fig  for  dates,  —  which  is 
more  than  a  date  is  worth.  I  never  stood  much 
affected  to  these  limitary  specialities,  —  least  of  all, 
since  the  date  of  my  superannuation. 

"  What  have  I  with  time  to  do  ? 
Slaves  of  desks,  't  was  meant  for  you." 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  315 

Dear  B.  B., — Your  handwriting  has  conveyed 
much  pleasure  to  me  in  respect  of  Lucy's  restora- 
tion. Would  I  could  send  you  as  good  news  of  my 
poor  Lucy  !  ^  But  some  wearisome  weeks  I  must 
remain  lonely  yet.  I  have  had  the  loneliest  time, 
near  ten  weeks,  broken  by  a  short  apparition  of 
Emma  for  her  holidays,  whose  departure  only  deep- 
ened the  returning  solitude,  and  by  ten  days  I  have 
passed  in  town.  But  town,  with  all  my  native  han- 
kering after  it,  is  not  what  it  was.  The  streets,  the 
shops,  are  left,  but  all  old  friends  are  gone.  And 
in  London  I  was  frightfully  convinced  of  this  as 
I  passed  houses  and  places,  empty  caskets  now. 
I  have  ceased  to  care  almost  about  anybody.  The 
bodies  I  cared  for  are  in  graves,  or  dispersed. 
My  old  clubs,  that  lived  so  long  and  flourished  so 
steadily,  are  crumbled  away.  When  I  took  leave  of 
our  adopted  young  friend  at  Charing  Cross,  't  was 
heavy  unfeeling  rain,  and  I  had  nowhere  to  go. 
Home  have  I  none,  and  not  a  sympathizing  house 
to  turn  to  in  the  great  city.  Never  did  the  waters 
of  heaven  pour  down  on  a  forlorner  head.  Yet  I 
tried  ten  days  at  a  sort  of  a  friend's  house  ;  but  it  was 
large  and  straggling,  —  one  of  the  individuals  of  my 
old  long  knot  of  friends,  card-players,  pleasant  com- 
panions, that  have  tumbled  to  pieces,  into  dust  and 
other  things  ;  and  I  got  home  on  Thursday,  con- 
vinced that  I  was  better  to  get  home  to  my  hole  at 
Enfield,  and  hide  like  a  sick  cat  in  my  corner. 
Less  than  a  month,  I  hope,  will  bring  home  Mary. 
She  is  at  Fulham,  looking  better  in  her  health  than 

1  Marv  I.amb. 


3i6  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

ever,  but  sadly  rambling,  and  scarce  showing  any 
pleasure  in  seeing  me,  or  curiosity  when  I  should 
come  again.  But  the  old  feelings  will  come  back 
again,  and  we  shall  drown  old  sorrows  over  a  game 
of  piquet  again.  But  't  is  a  tedious  cut  out  of  a 
life  of  fifty-four,  to  lose  twelve  or  thirteen  weeks 
every  year  or  two.  And  to  make  me  more  alone,  our 
ill-tempered  maid  is  gone,  who,  with  all  her  airs,  was 
yet  a  home-piece  of  furniture,  a  record  of  better 
days  ;  the  young  thing  that  has  succeeded  her  is 
good  and  attentive,  but  she  is  nothing.  And  I  have 
no  one  here  to  talk  over  old  matters  with.  Scolding 
and  quarrelling  have  something  of  familiarity  and  a 
community  of  interest ;  they  imply  acquaintance ; 
they  are  of  resentment,  which  is  of  the  family 
of  dearness. 

I  bragged  formerly  that  I  could  not  have  too 
much  time  ;  I  have  now  a  surfeit.  With  few  years 
to  come,  the  days  are  wearisome.  But  weariness  is 
not  eternal.  Something  will  shine  out  to  take  the 
load  off  that  flags  me,  which  is  at  present  intoler- 
able. I  have  killed  an  hour  or  two  in  this  poor 
scrawl.  I  am  a  sanguinary  murderer  of  time,  and 
would  kill  him  inch-meal  just  now.  But  the  snake 
is  vital.  Well,  I  shall  write  merrier  anon.  'T  is 
the  present  copy  of  my  countenance  I  send,  and  to 
comjilain  is  a  little  to  alleviate.  May  you  enjoy 
yourself  as  far  as  the  wicked  world  will  let  you,  and 
think  that  you  are  not  quite  alone,  as  I  am  !  Health 
to  Lucia  and  to  Anna,  and  kind  remembrances. 

Your  forlorn  C,  L. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  317 


CI. 

TO   MR.   GILLMAN. 

N'ovember  30,  1S29. 

Dear  G.,  —  The  excursionists  reached  home  and 
the  good  town  of  Enfield  a  little  after  four,  without 
slip  or  dislocation.  Little  has  transpired  concern- 
ing the  events  of  the  back-journey,  save  that  on 
passing  the  house  of  'Squire  Mellish,  situate  a  stone 
bow's  cast  from  the  hamlet,  Father  VVestwood,^  with 
a  good-natured  wonderment,  exclaimed,  "  I  cannot 
think  what  is  gone  of  Mr.  Mellish's  rooks.  I  fancy 
they  have  taken  flight  somewhere ;  but  I  have 
missed  them  two  or  three  years  past."  All  this 
while,  according  to  his  fellow-traveller's  report,  the 
rookery  was  darkening  the  air  above  with  undimin- 
ished population,  and  deafening  all  ears  but  his  with 
their  cawings.  But  nature  has  been  gently  with- 
drawing such  phenomena  from  the  notice  of  Thomas 
Westwood's  senses,  from  the  time  he  began  to  miss 
the  rooks.  T.  Westwood  has  passed  a  retired  life 
in  this  hamlet  of  thirty  or  forty  years,  living  upon  the 
minimum  which  is  consistent  with  gentility,  yet  a 
star  among  the  minor  gentry,  receiving  the  bows  of 
the  tradespeople  and  courtesies  of  the  alms-women 
daily.  Children  venerate  him  not  less  for  his  exter- 
nal show  of  gentry  than  they  wonder  at  him  for  a 

^  Lamb's  landlord.  He  had  driven  Mary  Lamb  over  to  see 
Coleridge  at  Highgate.  The  Lambs  had  been  compelled,  by 
the  frequent  illnesses  of  Mary  Lamb,  to  give  up  their  house- 
keeping at  Enfield  and  to  take  lodgings  with  the  Westwoods. 


3l8  LETTERS  OF  CJIAKLES  LAMB. 

gentle  rising  endorsation  of  the  person,  not  amount- 
ing to  a  hump,  or  if  a  hump,  innocuous  as  the  hump 
of  the  buffalo,  and  coronative  of  as  mild  qualities. 
'T  is  a  throne  on  which  patience  seems  to  sit,  —  the 
proud  perch  of  a  self-respecting  humility,  stooping 
with  condescension.  Thereupon  the  cares  of  Ufe 
have  sat,  and  rid  him  easily.  For  he  has  thrid  the 
angustice  domiis  with  dexterity.  Life  opened  upon 
him  with  comparative  brilliancy.  He  set  out  as  a 
rider  or  traveller  for  a  wholesale  house,  in  which  ca- 
pacity he  tells  of  many  hair  breadth  escapes  that  be- 
fell him,  —  one  especially,  how  he  rode  a  mad  horse 
into  the  town  of  Devizes ;  how  horse  and  rider  ar- 
rived in  a  foam,  to  the  utter  consternation  of  the 
expostulating  hostlers,  inn -keepers,  etc.  It  seems 
it  was  sultry  weather,  piping-hot ;  the  steed  tor- 
mented into  frenzy  with  gadflies,  long  past  being 
roadworthy  :  but  safety  and  the  interest  of  the  house 
he  rode  for  were  incompatible  things  \  a  fall  in  serge 
cloth  was  expected ;  and  a  mad  entrance  they  made 
of  it.  Whether  the  exploit  was  purely  voluntary,  or 
partially  \  or  whether  a  certain  personal  defiguration 
in  the  man  part  of  this  extraordinary  centaur  (non- 
assistive  to  partition  of  natures)  might  not  enforce 
the  conjunction,  I  stand  not  to  inquire.  I  look  not 
with  'skew  eyes  into  the  deeds  of  heroes.  The 
hosier  that  was  burned  with  his  shop  in  Field  Lane, 
on  Tuesday  night,  shall  have  passed  to  heaven  for 
me  like  a  Marian  Martyr,  provided  always  that  he 
consecrated  the  fortuitous  incremation  with  a  short 
ejaculation  in  the  exit,  as  much  as  if  he  had  taken 
his    state    degrees  of  martyrdom  in  forma    in    the 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB  319 

market  vicinage.  There  is  adoptive  as  well  as 
acquisitive  sacrifice.  Be  the  animus  what  it  might, 
the  fact  is  indisputable,  that  this  composition  was 
seen  flying  all  abroad,  and  mine  host  of  Daintry 
may  yet  remember  its  passing  through  his  town,  if 
his  scores  are  not  more  faithful  than  his  memory. 

To  come  from  his  heroic  character,  all  the  amia- 
ble qualities  of  domestic  life  concentre  in  this  tamed 
Bellerophon.  He  is  excellent  over  a  glass  of  grog ; 
just  as  pleasant  without  it ;  laughs  when  he  hears  a 
joke,  and  when  (which  is  much  oftener)  he  hears  it 
not ;  sings  glorious  old  sea-songs  on  festival  nights ; 
and  but  upon  a  slight  acquaintance  of  two  years, 
Coleridge,  is  as  dear  a  deaf  old  man  to  us  as  old 
Norris,  rest  his  soul  !  was  after  fifty.  To  him  and 
his  scanty  literature  (what  there  is  of  it,  soimd)  have 
we  flown  from  the  metropolis  and  its  cursed  annual- 
ists,  reviewers,  authors,  and  the  whole  muddy  ink 
press  of  that  stagnant  pool. 


CII. 

TO  WORDSWORTH. 

January  22,  1830. 

And  is  it  a  year  since  we  parted  from  you  at  the 
steps  of  Edmonton  stage?  There  are  not  now  the 
years  that  there  used  to  be.  The  tale  of  the  dwindled 
age  of  men,  reported  of  successional  mankind,  is 
true  of  the  same  man  only.  We  do  not  live  a  year 
in  a  year  now.     'T  is  a  piinctiim  stans.    The  seasons 


320  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

pass  us  with  indifference.  Spring  cheers  not,  nor 
winter  heightens  our  gloom  ;  autumn  hath  foregone 
its  moraUties,  —  they  are  "  heypass  repass,"  as  in  a 
show-box.  Yet,  as  far  as  last  year,  occurs  back  — 
for  they  scarce  show  a  reflex  now,  they  make  no 
memory  as  heretofore  —  't  was  sufficiently  gloomy. 
Let  the  sullen  nothing  pass.  Suffice  it  that  after  sad 
spirits,  prolonged  through  many  of  its  months,  as  it 
called  them,  we  have  cast  our  skins,  have  taken  a 
farewell  of  the  pompous,  troublesome  trifle  called 
housekeeping,  and  are  settled  down  into  poor  board- 
ers and  lodgers  at  next  door  with  an  old  couple,  the 
Baucis  and  Baucida  of  dull  Enfield.  Here  we  have 
nothing  to  do  with  our  victuals  but  to  eat  them,  with 
the  garden  but  to  see  it  grow,  with  the  tax-gatherer 
but  to  hear  him  knock,  with  the  maid  but  to  hear 
her  scolded.  Scot  and  lot,  butcher,  baker,  are 
things  unknown  to  us,  save  as  spectators  of  the  pa- 
geant. We  are  fed  we  know  not  how,  —  quietists, 
confiding  ravens.  We  have  the  otium  pro  digni- 
tate,  a  respectable  insignificance.  Yet  in  the  self- 
condemned  obliviousness,  in  the  stagnation,  some 
molesting  yearnings  of  life  not  quite  killed  rise, 
prompting  me  that  there  was  a  London,  and  that  I 
was  of  that  old  Jerusalem.  In  dreams  I  am  in  Fleet 
Market ;  but  I  wake  and  cry  to  sleep  again.  I  die 
hard,  a  stubborn  Eloisa  in  this  detestable  Paraclete. 
What  have  I  gained  by  health?  Intolerable  dulness. 
What  by  early  hours  and  moderate  meals?  A  total 
blank.  Oh,  never  let  the  lying  poets  be  believed 
who  'tice  men  from  the  cheerful  haunts  of  streets, 
or  think  they  mean  it  not  of  a  country  village.     In 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  32 1 

the  ruins  of  Palmyra  I  could  gird  myself  up  to  soli- 
tude, or  muse  to  the  snorings  of  the  Seven  Sleepers ; 
but  to  have  a  little  teasing  image  of  a  town  about 
one,  country  folks  that  do  not  look  like  country 
folks,  shops  two  yards  square,  half-a-dozen  apples 
and  two  penn'orth  of  over-looked  gingerbread  for 
the  lofty  fruiterers  of  Oxford  Street,  and  for  the  im- 
mortal book  and  print  stalls  a  circulating  library  that 
stands  still,  where  the  show-picture  is  a  last  year's 
Valentine,  and  whither  the  fame  of  the  last  ten 
Scotch  novels  has  not  yet  travelled  (marry,  they 
just  begin  to  be  conscious  of  the  "  Redgauntlet  "),  to 
have  a  new  plastered  flat  church,  and  to  be  wishing 
that  it  was  but  a  cathedral  !  The  very  blackguards 
here  are  degenerate,  the  topping  gentry  stock- 
brokers ;  the  passengers  too  many  to  insure  your 
quiet,  or  let  you  go  about  whistling  or  gaping,  —  too 
few  to  be  the  fine  indifferent  pageants  of  Fleet 
Street.  Confining,  room-keeping,  thickest  winter  is 
yet  more  bearable  here  than  the  gaudy  months. 
Among  one's  books  at  one's  fire  by  candle,  one  is 
soothed  into  an  oblivion  that  one  is  not  in  the 
country ;  but  with  the  light  the  green  fields  return, 
till  I  gaze,  and  in  a  calenture  can  plunge  myself  into 
St.  Giles's.  Oh,  let  no  native  Londoner  imagine 
that  health  and  rest  and  innocent  occupation,  inter- 
change of  converse  sweet  and  recreative  study,  can 
make  the  country  anything  better  than  altogether 
odious  and  detestable.  A  garden  was  the  primi- 
tive prison,  till  man  with  Promethean  felicity  and 
boldness  luckily  sinned  himself  out  of  it.  Thence 
followed  Babylon,  Nineveh,  Venice,  London  ;  haber- 


322  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

dashers,  goldsmiths,  taverns,  playhouses,  satires,  epi- 
grams, puns,  —  these  all  came  in  on  the  town  part 
and  t!ie  thither  side  of  innocence.  Man  found  out 
inventions.  From  my  den  I  return  you  condolence 
for  your  decaying  sight,  — not  for  anything  there  is 
to  see  in  the  country,  but  for  the  miss  of  the  pleasure 
of  reading  a  London  newspaper.  The  poets  are  as 
well  to  listen  to  ;  anything  high  may  —  nay,  must 
be  read  out ;  you  read  it  to  yourself  with  an  imagi- 
nary auditor  :  but  the  light  paragraphs  must  be  glid 
over  by  the  proper  eye  ;  mouthing  mumbles  their 
gossamery  substance,  'Tis  these  trifles  I  should 
n^ourn  in  fading  sight.  A  newspaper  is  the  single 
gleam  of  comfort  I  receive  here  ;  it  comes  from  rich 
Cathay  with  tidings  of  mankind.  Yet  I  could  not 
attend  to  it,  read  out  by  the  most  beloved  voice. 
But  your  eyes  do  not  get  worse,  I  gather.  Oh,  for 
the  collyrium  of  Tobias  enclosed  in  a  whiting's  liver, 
to  send  you,  with  no  apocryphal  good  wishes  !  The 
last  long  time  I  heard  from  you,  you  had  knocked 
your  head  against  something.  Do  not  do  so ;  for 
your  head  (I  do  not  flatter)  is  not  a  knob,  or  the 
top  of  a  brass  nail,  or  the  end  of  a  ninepin,  —  un- 
less a  Vulcanian  hammer  could  fairly  batter  a  "  Re- 
cluse "  out  of  it ;  then  would  I  bid  the  smirched  god 
knock,  and  knock  lustily,  the  two-handed  skinker  ! 
Mary  must  squeeze  out  a  line  propria  manu ;  but 
indeed  her  fingers  have  been  incorrigibly  nervous  to 
letter-writing  for  a  long  interval.  'Twill  please  you 
all  to  hear  that,  though  I  fret  like  a  lion  in  a  net, 
her  present  health  and  spirits  are  better  than  they 
have  been  for  some  time    past ;    she  is    absolutely 


LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  323 

three  years  and  a  half  younger,  as  I  tell  her,  since 
we  have  adopted  this  boarding  plan. 

Our  providers  are  an  honest  pair.  Dame  Westwood 
and  her  husband.  —  he,  when  the  light  of  prosperity 
shined  on  them,  a  moderately  thriving  haberdasher 
within  Bow  bells,  retired  since  with  something  under 
a  competence  ;  writes  himself  parcel-gentleman ; 
hath  borne  parish  ofifices  ;  sings  fine  old  sea-songs  at 
threescore  and  ten ;  sighs  only  now  and  then  when 
he  thinks  that  he  has  a  son  on  his  hands  about 
fifteen,  whom  he  finds  a  difficulty  in  getting  out 
into  the  world,  and  then  checks  a  sigh  with  mutter- 
ing, as  I  once  heard  him  prettily,  not  meaning  to  be 
heard,  '•  I  have  married  my  daughter,  however  ;  " 
takes  the  weather  as  it  comes ;  outsides  it  to  town  in 
severest  season  ;  and  o'  winter  nights  tells  old  stories 
not  tending  to  literature  (how  comfortable  to  au- 
thor-rid folks  !),  and  has  one  ancedote,  upon  v/hich 
and  about  forty  pounds  a  year  he  seems  to  have 
retired  in  green  old  age.  It  was  how  he  was  a  rider 
in  his  youth,  travelling  for  shops,  and  once  (not  to 
balk  his  employer's  bargain)  on  a  sweltering  day  in 
August,  rode  foaming  into  Dunstable  ^  upon  a  mad 
horse,  to  the  dismay  and  expostulatory  wonderment 
of  inn-keepers,  ostlers,  etc.,  who  declared  they  would 
not  have  bestrid  the  beast  to  win  the  Derby.  Un- 
derstand the  creature  galled  to  death  and  despera- 
tion by  gad-flies,  cormorant-winged,  worse  than 
beset  Inachus's  daughter.  This  he  tells,  this  he 
brindles  and  burnishes,  on  a  winter's  eve ;  't  is  his 
star   of  set   glory,   his    rejuvenescence    to    descant 

1  See  preceding  letter. 


3^4  LETTERS  OE  CHARLES  LAMB. 

upon.  Far  from  me  be  it  {jiii  avertant  .'^  to  look  a 
gift-story  in  tlie  mouth,  or  cruelly  to  surmise  (as 
those  who  doubt  the  plunge  of  Curtius)  that  the 
inseparate  conjuncture  of  man  and  beast,  the  cen- 
taur-phenomenon that  staggered  all  Dunstable,  might 
have  been  the  effect  of  unromantic  necessity ;  that 
the  horse-part  carried  the  reasoning  willy-nilly ; 
that  needs  must  when  such  a  devil  drove  ;  that  cer- 
tain spiral  configurations  in  the  frame  of  Thomas 
Westwood,  unfriendly  to  alighting,  made  the  alliance 
more  forcible  than  voluntary.  Let  him  enjoy  his 
fame  for  me,  nor  let  me  hint  a  whisper  that  shall 
dismount  Bellerophon.  But  in  case  he  was  an  in- 
voluntary martyr,  yet  if  in  the  fiery  conflict  he 
buckled  the  soul  of  a  constant  haberdasher  to  him, 
and  adopted  his  flames,  let  accident  and  him  share 
the  glory.  You  would  all  like  Thomas  Westwood. 
[  ]  ^     How  weak  is  painting  to  describe  a 

man  !  Say  that  he  stands  four  feet  and  a  nail  high 
by  his  own  yard-measure,  which,  like  the  sceptre  of 
Agamemnon,  shall  never  sprout  again,  still,  you  have 
no  adequate  idea ;  nor  when  I  tell  you  that  his  dear 
hump,  which  I  have  favored  in  the  picture,  seems 
to  me  of  the  buffalo,  —  indicative  and  repository  of 
mild  qualities,  a  budget  of  kindnesses, — still,  you 
have  not  the  man.  Knew  you  old  Norris  of  the 
Temple,  sixty  years  ours  and  our  father's  friend? 
He  was  not  more  natural  to  us  than  this  old  West- 
wood,  the  acquaintance  of  scarce  more  weeks. 
Under  his  roof  now  ought  I  to  take  my  rest,  but 
that  back-looking  ambition  tells  me  I  might  yet  be  a 

*  Here  was  inserted  a  sketch  answering  to  the  description. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  325 

Londoner  !  Well,  if  we  ever  do  move,  we  have 
encumbrances  the  less  to  impede  us ;  all  our  furni- 
ture has  faded  under  the  auctioneer's  hammer,  going 
for  nothing,  like  the  tarnished  frippery  of  the  prodi- 
gal, and  we  have  only  a  spoon  or  two  left  to  bless 
us.  Clothed  we  came  into  Enfield,  and  naked  we 
must  go  out  of  it.  I  would  live  in  London  shirtless, 
bookless.  Henry  Crabb  is  at  Rome ;  advices  to 
that  effect  have  reached  Bury.  But  by  solemn 
legacy  he  bequeathed  at  parting  (whether  he  should 
live  or  die)  a  turkey  of  Suffolk  to  be  sent  every 
succeeding  Christmas  to  us  and  divers  other  friends. 
What  a  genuine  old  bachelor's  action  !  I  fear  he 
will  find  the  air  of  Italy  too  classic.  His  station  is 
in  the  Hartz  forest ;  his  soul  is  be-Goethed.  Miss 
Kelly  we  never  see, — Talfourd  not  this  half  year; 
the  latter  flourishes,  but  the  exact  number  of  his 
children,  God  forgive  me,  I  have  utterly  forgotten  : 
we  single  people  are  often  out  in  our  count  there. 
Shall  I  say  two?  We  see  scarce  anybody.  Can 
I  cram  loves  enough  to  you  all  in  this  little  O? 
Excuse  particularizing. 

C.  L. 

cin. 

TO   MRS.    HAZLITT. 

May  24,  1S30. 

Mary's  love  ?     Yes.     Mary  Lamb  quite  well. 

Dear  Sar.^h,  —  I  found  my  way  to  Northaw  on 
Thursday  and  a  very  good  woman  behind  a  coun- 
ter, who  says  also  that  you  are  a  very  good  lady, 
but  that  the  woman  who  was  with  vou  was  naught. 


326  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

We  travelled  with  one  of  those  troublesome 
fellow- passengers  in  a  stage-coach  that  is  called 
a  well-informed  man.  For  twenty  miles  we  dis- 
coursed about  the  properties  of  steam,  probabilities 
of  carriages  by  ditto,  till  all  my  science,  and  more 
than  all,  was  exhausted,  and  I  was  thinking  of  es- 
caping my  torment  by  getting  up  on  the  outside, 
when,  getting  into  Bishops  Stortford,  my  gentleman, 
spying  some  farming  land,  put  an  unlucky  question 
to  me, — What  sort  of  a  crop  of  turnips  I  thought 
we  should  have  this  year?  Emma's  eyes  turned  to 
me  to  know  what  in  the  world  I  could  have  to  say ; 
and  she  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  laughter,  maugre 
her  pale,  serious  cheeks,  when,  with  the  greatest 
gravity,  I  replied  that  it  depended,  I  believed,  upon 
boiled  legs  of  mutton.  This  clenched  our  conver- 
sation ;  and  my  gentleman,  with  a  face  half  wise, 
half  in  scorn,  troubled  us  with  no  more  conversa- 
tion, scientific  or  philosophical,  for  the  remainder 
of  the  journey. 

Ayrton  was  here  yesterday,  and  as  learned  to 
the  full  as  my  fellow-traveller.  What  a  pity  that 
he  will  spoil  a  wit  and  a  devilish  pleasant  fellow  (as 
he  is)  by  wisdom  !  He  talked  on  Music ;  and 
by  having  read  Hawkins  and  Burney  recently  I  was 
enabled  to  talk  of  names,  and  show  more  knowl- 
edge than  he  had  suspected  I  possessed  ;  and  in 
the  end  he  begged  me  to  shape  my  thoughts  upon 
paper,  which  I  did  after  he  was  gone,  and  sent  him 
"  Free  Thoughts  on  Some  Eminent  Composers." 

"  Some  cry  up  Haydn,  some  Mozart, 
Just  as  the  whim  bites.     For  my  part, 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  327 

I  do  not  care  a  farthing  candle 

For  either  of  them,  or  for  Handel,"  etc. 

Martin  Burney  ^  is  as  odd  as  ever.  We  had  a  dis- 
pute about  the  word  "  heir,"  which  I  contended 
was  pronounced  hke  "air."  He  said  that  might 
be  in  common  parlance,  or  that  we  might  so  use 
it  speaking  of  the  "  Heir-at-Law,"  a  comedy ;  but 
that  in  the  law-courts  it  was  necessary  to  give  it 
a  full  aspiration,  and  to  say  Hayer ;  he  thought 
it  might  even  vitiate  a  cause  if  a  counsel  pro- 
nounced it  otherwise.  In  conclusion,  he  "  would 
consult  Serjeant  Wilde,"  who  gave  it  against  him. 
Sometimes  he  falleth  into  the  water,  sometimes 
into  the  fire.  He  came  down  here,  and  insisted 
on  reading  Virgil's  "^neid"  all  through  with  me 
(which  he  did),  because  a  counsel  must  know 
Latin.  Another  time  he  read  out  all  the  Gospel 
of  St.  John,  because  Biblical  quotations  are  very 
emphatic  in  a  court  of  justice.  A  third  time  he 
would  carve  a  fowl,  which  he  did  very  ill  favoredly, 
because  we  did  not  know  how  indispensable  it 
was  for  a  barrister  to  do  all  those  sort  of  things 
well.  Those  little  things  were  of  more  conse- 
quence than  we  supposed.  So  he  goes  on,  har- 
assing about  the  way  to  prosperity,  and  losing  it. 
With  a  long  head,  but  somewhat  a  wrong  one,  — 
harum-scarum.  Why  does  not  his  guardian  angel 
look  to  him?  He  deserves  one,  —  maybe  he  has 
tired  him  out. 

I  am  tired  with  this  long  scrawl ;  but  I  thought 

1  Martin    Burney,  originally  a  solicitor,  had  lately  been 
called  to  the  Bar. 


328  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

in  your  exile  you  might  like  a  letter.  Commend 
me  to  all  the  wonders  in  Derbyshire,  and  tell  the 
devil  I  humbly  kiss  my  hand  to  him. 

Yours  ever,  C.  Lamb. 


CIV. 

TO  GEORGE   DYER. 

December  20,  1830. 
Dear  Dyer,  —  I  would  have  written  before  to 
thank  you  for  your  kind  letter,  written  with  your 
own  hand.  It  glads  us  to  see  your  writing.  It  will 
give  you  pleasure  to  hear  that,  after  so  much  illness, 
we  are  in  tolerable  health  and  spirits  once  more. 
Miss  Isola  intended  to  call  upon  you  after  her 
night's  lodging  at  Miss  Buffam's,  but  found  she  was 
too  late  for  the  stage.  If  she  comes  to  town  before 
she  goes  home,  she  will  not  miss  paying  her  re- 
spects to  Mrs.  Dyer  and  you,  to  whom  she  desires 
best  love.  Poor  Enfield,  that  has  been  so  peace- 
able hitherto,  that  has  caught  an  inflammatory  fever, 
the  tokens  are  upon  her ;  and  a  great  fire  was  blaz- 
ing last  night  in  the  barns  and  haystacks  of  a  farmer 
about  half  a  mile  from  us.  Where  will  these  things 
end?  There  is  no  doubt  of  its  being  the  work 
of  some  ill-disposed  rustic  ;  but  how  is  he  to  be 
discovered?  They  go  to  work  in  the  dark  with 
strange  chemical  preparations  unknown  to  our  fore- 
fathers. There  is  not  even  a  dark  lantern  to  have 
a  chance  of  detecting  these  Guy  Fauxes.  We  are 
past  the  iron  age,  and  are  got  into  the  fiery  age, 
undream'd  of  by  Ovid.     You  are  lucky  in  Clifford's 


LETTERS  OE  CHARLES  LAMB.  329 

Inn,  where,  I  think,  you  have  few  ricks  or  stacks 
worth  the  burning.  Pray  keep  as  Httle  corn  by  you 
as  you  can,  for  fear  of  the  worst. 

It  was  never  good  times  in  England  since  the 
poor  began  to  speculate  upon  their  condition. 
Formerly  they  jogged  on  with  as  little  reflection 
as  horses ;  the  whistling  ploughman  went  cheek  by 
jowl  with  his  brother  that  neighed.  Now  the  biped 
carries  a  box  of  phosphorus  in  his  leather  breeches ; 
and  in  the  dead  of  night  the  half-illuminated  beast 
steals  his  magic  potion  into  a  cleft  in  a  barn,  and 
half  the  country  is  grinning  with  new  fires.  Farmer 
Graystock  said  something  to  the  touchy  rustic  that 
he  did  not  relish,  and  he  writes  his  distaste  in 
flames.  What  a  power  to  intoxicate  his  crude 
brains,  just  muddlingly  awake,  to  perceive  that 
something  is  wrong  in  the  social  system ;  what  a 
hellish  faculty  above  gunpowder  ! 

Now  the  rich  and  poor  are  fairly  pitted,  we  shall 
see  who  can  hang  or  burn  fastest.  It  is  not  always 
revenge  that  stimulates  these  kindlings.  There  is 
a  love  of  exerting  mischief.  Think  of  a  disre- 
spected clod  that  was  trod  into  earth,  that  was 
nothing,  on  a  sudden  by  damned  arts  refined  into 
an  exterminating  angel,  devouring  the  fruits  of  the 
earth  and  their  growers  in  a  mass  of  fire  !  What 
a  new  existence ;  what  a  temptation  above  Luci- 
fer's !  Would  clod  be  anything  but  a  clod  if  he 
could  resist  it?  Why,  here  was  a  spectacle  last 
night  for  a  whole  country,  —  a  bonfire  visible  to 
London,  alarming  her  guilty  towers,  and  shaking 
the    Monument  with   an    ague   fit :  all    done    by  a 


S3°  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

little  vial  of  phosphor  in  a  clown's  fob  !  How  he 
must  grin,  and  shake  his  empty  noddle  in  clouds, 
the  Vulcanian  epicure  !  Can  we  ring  the  bells 
backward?  Can  we  unlearn  the  arts  that  pretend 
to  civilize,  and  then  burn  the  world?  There  is  a 
march  of  Science  :  but  who  shall  beat  the  drums 
for  its  retreat?  Who  shall  persuade  the  boor  that 
phosphor  will  not  ignite? 

Seven  goodly  stacks  of  hay,  with  corn-barns  pro- 
portionable, lie  smoking  ashes  and  chaff,  which  man 
and  beast  would  sputter  out  and  reject  like  those 
apples  of  asphaltes  and  bitumen.  The  food  for  the 
inhabitants  of  earth  will  quickly  disappear.  Hot 
rolls  may  say,  "  Fuimus  panes,  fuit  quartern-loaf, 
at  ingens  gloria  Apple-pasty-orum."  That  the  good 
old  munching  system  may  last  thy  time  and  mine, 
good  un-incendiary  George,  is  the  devout  prayer 
of  thine,  to  the  last  crust, 

Ch.  Lamb. 


CV. 

TO   DYER. 

February  22,  1 83 1. 

Dear  Dyer,  —  Mr.  Rogers  and  Mr.  Rogers's 
friends  are  perfectly  assured  that  you  never  in- 
tended any  harm  by  an  innocent  couplet,  and  that 
in  the  revivification  of  it  by  blundering  Barker  you 
had  no  hand  whatever.  To  imagine  that,  at  this 
time  of  day,  Rogers  broods  over  a  fantastic  expres- 
sion of  more  than  thirty  years'  standing,  would  be 
to  suppose  him  indulging  his  '*  Pleasures  of  Memory  " 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  331 

with  a  vengeance.  You  never  penned  a  line  which 
for  its  own  sake  you  need,  dying,  wish  to  blot. 
You  mistake  your  heart  if  you  think  you  can  write 
a  lampoon.  Your  whips  are  rods  of  roses. ^  Your 
spleen  has  ever  had  for  its  objects  vices,  not  the 
vicious,  —  abstract  offences,  not  the  concrete  sinner. 
But  you  are  sensitive,  and  wince  as  much  at  the 
consciousness  of  having  committed  a  compliment 
as  another  man  would  at  the  perpetration  of  an 
affront.  But  do  not  lug  me  into  the  same  soreness 
of  conscience  with  yourself.  I  maintain,  and  will 
to  the  last  hour,  that  I  never  writ  of  you  but  con 
ainore  ;  that  if  any  allusion  w^as  made  to  your  near- 
sightedness, it  was  not  for  the  purpose  of  mocking 
an  infirmity,  but  of  connecting  it  with  scholar-like 
habits,  —  for  is  it  not  erudite  and  scholarly  to  be 
somewhat  near  of  sight  before  age  naturally  brings 
on  the  malady?  You  could  not  then  plead  the 
obr-epens  senectus.  Did  I  not,  moreover,  make  it  an 
apology  for  a  certain  absence,  which  some  of  your 
friends  may  have  experienced,  when  you  have  not 
on  a  sudden  made  recognition  of  them  in  a  casual 
street-meeting  ;  and  did  I  not  strengthen  your  excuse 
for  this  slowness  of  recognition  by  further  account- 

1  Talfourd  relates  an  amusing  instance  of  the  universal 
charity  ot  the  kindly  Dyer.  Lamb  once  suddenly  asked  him 
what  he  thought  of  the  murderer  Williams,  —  a  wretch  who 
had  destroyed  two  families  in  RatclifF  Highway,  and  then 
cheated  the  gallows  by  committing  suicide.  "  The  desperate 
attempt,"  says  Talfourd,  "  to  compel  the  gentle  optimist  to 
speak  ill  of  a  mortal  creature  produced  no  happier  success 
than  the  answer,  '  Why,  I  should  think,  Mr.  Lamb,  he  must 
have  been  rather  an  eccentric  character.'  " 


332  LETTERS   OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

ing  morally  for  the  present  engagement  of  your  mind 
in  worthy  objects?  Did  I  not,  in  your  person,  make 
the  handsomest  apology  for  absent-of-mind  people 
that  was  ever  made?  If  these  things  be  not  so,  I 
never  knew  what  I  wrote  or  meant  by  my  writing, 
and  have  been  penning  libels  all  my  life  without 
being  aware  of  it.  Does  it  follow  that  I  should  have 
expressed  myself  exactly  in  the  same  way  of  those 
dear  old  eyes  of  yours  now,  —  now  that  Father 
Time  has  conspired  with  a  hard  taskmaster  to  put  a 
last  extinguisher  upon  them  ?  I  should  as  soon  have 
insulted  the  Answerer  of  Salmasius  when  he  awoke 
up  from  his  ended  task,  and  saw  no  more  with 
mortal  vision.  But  you  are  many  films  removed 
yet  from  Milton's  calamity.  You  write  perfectly 
intelligibly.  Marry,  the  letters  are  not  all  of  the 
same  size  or  tallness ;  but  that  only  shows  your  pro- 
ficiency in  the  hands,  —  text,  german-hand,  court- 
hand,  sometimes  law-hand,  and  affords  variety.  You 
pen  better  than  you  did  a  twelvemonth  ago ;  and  if 
you  continue  to  improve,  you  bid  fair  to  win  the 
golden  pen  which  is  the  prize  at  your  young  gentle- 
men's academy. 

But  don't  go  and  lay  this  to  your  eyes.  You 
always  wrote  hieroglyphically,  yet  not  to  come  up 
to  the  mystical  notations  and  conjuring  characters 
of  Dr.  Parr.  You  never  wrote  what  I  call  a  school- 
master's hand,  like  Mrs.  Clarke  ;  nor  a  woman's 
hand,  like  Southey ;  nor  a  missal  hand,  like  Porson  ; 
nor  an  all-on-the-wrong-side  sloping  hand,  like  Miss 
Hayes  ;  nor  a  dogmatic,  Mede-and- Persian,  peremp- 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  m 

tory  hand,  like  Rickman  :  but  you  wrote  what  I  call 
a  Grecian's  hand,  —  what  the  Grecians  write  (or 
wrote)  at  Christ's  Hospital ;  such  as  Whalley  would 
have  admired,  and  Boyer  ^  have  applauded,  but  Smith 
or  Atwood  [writing-masters]  wouki  have  horsed  you 
for.  Your  boy-of-genius  hand  and  your  mercantile 
hand  are  various.  By  your  flourishes,  I  should  think 
you  never  learned  to  make  eagles  or  cork-screws,  or 
flourish  the  governor's  names  in  the  writing-school ; 
and  by  the  tenor  and  cut  of  your  letters,  I  suspect 
you  were  never  in  it  at  all.  By  the  length  of  this 
scrawl  you  will  think  I  have  a  design  upon  your 
optics ;  but  I  have  writ  as  large  as  I  could,  out  of 
respect  to  them,  —  too  large,  indeed,  for  beauty. 
Mine  is  a  sort  of  Deputy-Grecian's  hand,  —  a  little 
better,  and  more  of  a  worldly  hand,  than  a  Grecian's, 
but  still  remote  from  the  mercantile.  I  don't  know 
how  it  is,  but  I  keep  my  rank  in  fancy  still  since 
school-days  ;  I  can  never  forget  I  was  a  Deputy- 
Grecian.  And  writing  to  you,  or  to  Coleridge, 
besides  affection,  I  feel  a  reverential  deference  as 
to  Grecians  still. ^  I  keep  my  soaring  way  above 
the  Great  Erasmians,  yet  far  beneath  the  other. 
Alas  !  what  am  I  now?  What  is  a  Leadenhall  clerk 
or  India  pensioner  to  a  Deputy-Grecian?  Hoav  art 
thou  fallen,  O  Lucifer  !     Just  room  for  our  loves  to 

Mrs.  D.,  etc. 

C.  Lamb. 

I  Whalley  and  Boyer  were  masters  at  Christ's  Hospital. 
-  "  Deputy  Grecian,"  "  Grecian,"  etc.,  were  of  course  forms, 
or  grades,  at  Christ's  Hospital. 


334  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

CVI. 

TO   MR.    MOXON.i 

February,  1832. 
Dear  Moxon,  —  The  snows  are  ankle-deep,  slush, 
and  mire,  that 't  is  hard  to  get  to  the  post-ofifice,  and 
cruel  to  send  the  maid  out.  'T  is  a  slough  of  de- 
spair, or  I  should  sooner  have  thanked  you  for  your 
offer  of  the  "  Life,"  which  we  shall  very  much  like 
to  have,  and  will  return  duly.  I  do  not  know  when 
I  shall  be  in  town,  but  in  a  week  or  two  at  farthest, 
wh'fen  I  will  come  as  far  as  you,  if  I  can.  We  are 
moped  to  death  with  confinement  within  doors.  I 
send  you  a  curiosity  of  G.  Dyer's  tender  conscience. 
Between  thirty  and  forty  years  since,  George  pub- 
lished the  "  Poet's  Fate,"  in  which  were  two  very 
harmless  lines  about  Mr.  Rogers  ;  but  Mr.  R.  not 
quite  approving  of  them,  they  were  left  out  in  a 
subsequent  edition,  1801.  But  George  has  been 
worrying  about  them  ever  since ;  if  I  have  heard 
him  once,  I  have  heard  him  a  hundred  times  ex- 
press a  remorse  proportioned  to  a  consciousness  of 
having  been  guilty  of  an  atrocious  libel.  As  the 
devil  would  have  it,  a  fool  they  call  Barker,  in  his 
"  Parriana "  has  quoted  the  identical  two  lines  as 
they  stood  in  some  obscure  edition  anterior  to  i8or, 
and  the  withers  of  poor  George  are  again  wrung. 
His  letter  is  a  gem  ;  with  his  poor  blind  eyes  it  has 

1  Lamb's  future  publisher.     He    afterwards   became  the 
husband  of  Lamb's /rt7/4'^V,  Emma  Isola. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB.  335 

been  labored  out  at  six  sittings.  The  history  of  the 
couplet  is  in  page  3  of  this  irregular  production,  in 
which  every  variety  of  shape  and  size  that  letters 
can  be  twisted  into  is  to  be  found.  Do  show  his 
part  of  it  to  Mr.  Rogers  some  day.  If  he  has 
bowels,  they  must  melt  at  the  contrition  so  queerly 
charactered  of  a  contrite  sinner.  G.  was  born,  I 
verily  think,  without  original  sin,  but  chooses  to 
have  a  conscience,  as  every  Christian  gentleman 
should  have  ;  his  dear  old  face  is  insusceptible  of 
the  twist  they  call  a  sneer,  yet  he  is  apprehensive  of 
being  suspected  of  that  ugly  appearance.  When  he 
makes  a  compliment,  he  thinks  he  has  given  an 
affront,  —  a  name  is  personality.  But  show  (no  hur- 
ry) this  unique  recantation  to  Mr.  Rogers  :  't  is  like  a 
dirty  pocket-handerchief  mucked  with  tears  of  some 
indigent  Magdalen.  There  is  the  impress  of  sin- 
cerity m  every  pot-hook  and  hanger ;  and  then  the 
gilt  frame  to  such  a  pauper  picture  !  It  should  go 
into  the  Museum. 


evil. 

TO   MR.   MOXON. 

Jnh  24,  1S33. 

For  God's  sake  give  Emma  no  more  watches  ; 
one  has  turned  her  head.  She  is  arrogant  and  in- 
sulting. She  said  something  v^ery  unpleasant  to  our 
old  clock  in  the  passage,  as  if  he  did  not  keep  time  ; 
and  yet  he  had   made   her  no  appointment.     She 


336  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

takes  it  out  every  instant  to  look  at  the  moment- 
hand.  She  lugs  us  out  into  the  fields,  because 
there  the  bird-boys  ask  you,  "  Pray,  sir,  can  you  tell 
us  what 's  o'clock?"  and  she  answers  them  punc- 
tually. She  loses  all  her  time  looking  to  see  "  what 
the  time  is."  I  overheard  her  whispering,  "  Just  so 
many  hours,  minutes,  etc.,  to  Tuesday  ;  I  think  St. 
George's  goes  too  slow."  This  little  present  of 
Time,  —  why,  't  is   Eternity   to  her  ! 

What  can  make  her  so  fond  of  a  gingerbread 
watch  ? 

She  has  spoiled  some  of  the  movements.  Be- 
tween ourselves,  she  has  kissed  away  "  half-past 
twelve,"  which  I  suppose  to  be  the  canonical  hour 
in  Hanover  Square. 

Well,  if  "  love  me,  love  my  watch,"  answers,  she 
will  keep  time  to  you. 

It  goes  right  by  the  Horse-Guards. 

Dearest  M.,  —  Never  mind  opposite  nonsense. 
She  does  not  love  you  for  the  watch,  but  the  watch 
for  you.  I  will  be  at  the  wedding,  and  keep  the 
30th  July,  as  long  as  my  poor  months  last  me,  as  a 
festival  gloriously. 

Yours  ever, 

Elia. 


THE    END. 


2883 


/- 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


^^.^  2  5  1932 

MAY  S     li^3i 

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